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AFFECTION'S  TEAR      - 
PRESEIiTATION  PLATE    - 
MUSIC        ...        - 
THE  YOUNG  MOTHER      - 
LAKE  GEORGE      - 
BRIDE  OF  LAMMERMOOR 


PAOB 

FRONTISPIECE 

BEFORE   TITLE 

30 

72 

136 

187 


M 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


f\aa 

THE  MAGNOLIA S 

IMPROMPTU , 10 

BOYS  ON  THE  ICE 11 

THE  DEATH  OF  SOTO.     By  the  Author  OP  "The  Brothers"...  14 

THE  CONQUEROR  — a  Dream 24 

TO  AN  OSTRICH  FEATHER 28 

MUSIC 30 

ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN.     Bt  J.  K.  Paulding,  Esa 31 

LOGOOCHIE.     By  the  Author  op  '•  Guy  Rivers,"     Atalantis," 

and  "  The  Yem asseb" 36 

SONG 71 

THE  YOUNG  MOTHER.     By  Grenville  Mellen,  Esu. 72 

MUERTE  EN  GARROTE  VIL.     By  the  .Author  of  "A  Year  in 

Spain" 77 

THE  RESCUE 35 

THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRE.    Bythb  Author  of -'Atalantis," 

'■  The  Ye.m assee."  &c 93 

THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE.    By  the  Author  of  "Allen  Prescot".  i05 

STANZ.VS    135 

LAKE  GEORGE.     By  E,  F.  E 136 

DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA 138 

AMY  CR  ANSTOUN.    By  the  Author  c  p  "  Redwood,"  and  "  Hope 

Leslie" 146 

r 


rONTENTS. 

PAcn 

A  S£A  J'ICTURE      By  OnENVtLLE  Mellen,  Esq ...   ...  1T7 

TIIP;  HARMONY  OF  NATURE 154 

Tilt;   IJltlDE  or  I.AMMKKMOOR 187 

DiCK  MOON,     liv  \\m.  L.  Sihnb,  Esii fSS 

GREEN'S  POM)  214 

PRE?!ENTI,M[-,NT      By  A   I)   Paterson,  Estt 217 

KAATSKII.1 249 

WASHINGTON   251 

ISOLATED  AFFECTION -253 

A  LIVING  POET 257 

US  N  O  ( .  E  N  Z  A 258 


THE    MAGNOLIA. 


Not  in  the  autumn  pale  and  cold^ 

When  flowers  of  frailer  beaut v  fade,-»»=» 
When  sombre  hues  the  woods  unfold, 

And  violets  oroop  beneath  their  shade- 
Sweet  flower !  thou  bloom' st  in  lonely  grac® 

But  Avhen  at  radiant  summer's  call 
Her  bright  ones  woo  the  wind's  embrace, 

Thou  shinest,  the  loveliest  of  them  all. 

The  wild  rose  rears  its  glowing  head 
Beside  thee,  emulous,  but  in  vain  ; 

Soft  leaves  and  buds  their  odors  shed— 
But  thou  art  sweetest  of  the  train ! 

No  rival  'neath  the  summer  heaven, 
Majestic  flower!  thine  empire  shares j 

And  thus  the  bard  to  thee  hath  given 
A  deeper  meaning  far  than  theirs. 


THt;    MAGNOLIA. 


This  volume,  too,  amid  the  throng 
That  shine  with  evanescent  grace, 

In  the  gay  garb  of  smiLe  and  song — 

Would,  claim,  like  thee,  the  brightest  place. 

Yet  wouid  not  droop  like  thee  away. 

When  days  of  light  grow  dark  and  chill ; 
But,  like  the  truth  thy  leaves  display, 
'  Re"  tTagraiU  and  unfading  still 


I M  P  R  O  M  P 1'  U 


T O  ,     IN    RETUKN     FOK    A     FLOWBB/ 


For  the  sweet  flower  thou  giv'st  me, 

So  beautiful  and  rare, 
Thou  has',  fond  maid,  my  friendly  thought. 

Thou  hast  my  fondest  prayer. 

Thou  giv'st  me,  with  thy  pleasant  flower, 
Sweet  words,  that  gently  thrill ; 

[  pray,  'ti3  all  that  I  c^  do. 
That  thou  may'st  keep  them  still 


M 


BOYS    ON   THE   ICE, 


Moi  HER,  where  art  thou  now — fond  mother,  where? 
Busied  perchance  about  the  cottage  hearth;  — 
Or  tendino;,  with  soft  hand  and  woman  care, 
The  grandsire's  pillow;  — or  with  innocent  mirth 
Carolling  old  sweet  melodies  of  home; — 
Shaping  the  while  —  with  love's  unwearied  skill 
That  waits  not,  wanes  not,  though  the  truants  roam, 
Some  homespun  garb,  to  fence  frore  winter's  chill 
From  those  loved  little  ones — those  sireless  boys  — 
In  whom  is  fixed  thine  all,  of  fears  —  affections — joys! 

Mother,  where  art  thou  now — sad  mother,  where? — 
Noontide  hath  chimed  on  every  village  bell — 
A  damper  breath  is  on  the  evening  air, 
Windingthrough  woodlands  hoar  its  mournful  shell ; 
The  short-lived  sun  hath  neared  the  western  hill-^ 
Yet  hath  no  sound  appeased  thine  anxious  ear, 
Of  frolic  shout  —  or  childish  laughter  shrill  — 
Or  prattling  tongues,  unfathomably  dear! — 
No  joyous  yelping,  by  his  playmates'  side, 
Of  him,  at  night  their  guird — their  friend  by  day 
an  1  sfuide  I 


12  BOYS   ON    THE    ICE 

Mother,  where  art  thou  now — dear  mother,  where? 
There  is  a  voice  beside  the  frozen  shore  — 
A  voice,  would  bid  thy  \vidow-heart  despair  — 
A  voice  which  heard — thou  would'st  hear  riever 

more — 
Nor    see,    nor   hope,    nor    pray ! —  No  —  not   for 

heaven ! — 
A  cry  for  succor  —  "Succor,  or  we  perish 
O'er  the  blind  waters  to  destruction  driven!  — " 
Blest   that   thou    see'st   them    not  —  that    so    dost 

cherish  — 
The  frail  ice  drifting  to  the  ocean  wide, 
J'heir  frail,  yet  sole  support,  upon  the  wheeling  tide!  — 

Mother,  where  art  thou  —  hapless  mother,  where? 
Thy  babes  are  pleading  to  the  earless  deep 
For  mercy!  — mercy  from  the  waves,  that  iie'or. 
Save  once,  heard  voice  of  man,  and  sank  to  sleep!  — 
And  there  is  no   helj)!  —  none!  —  and  thoy    must 

fall  — 
So  bright,  so  innocent,  and  oh  so  brief  — 
And  thou.  —  thou  must  survive  thy  last  —  thine  all; 
Survive  —  in  solitary  hopeless  grief  — 
Better  it  were  —  oh  better  far  —  to  share 
Their  fate  —  thou  so  dost  love  —  for  whom  thou  so 

didst  bear  I 

Hope  mother  j'et  —  imconscious  mother,  hope  I 
TTe,  who  bade  hush  the  roar  on  (lalilee. 
And  walked  the  waters,  tTiat  their  crests  did  slope 
Tamo  at  his  word  and  powerless — may  noi  \\z. 


BOV.S    ON    THE    ICE  13 

Or  doth  he  lack  the  will  again  to  save?  — 
Pure  vows  are  soaring  to  the  throne  of  might  — 
High  hearts,  strong  hands,  are  battling  with   the 

wave  — 
And  the  bark  rushes,  swifter  than  the  flight 
Of  Indian  arrow,  gurgling  through  the  spray, 
That  chides,  but  may  not  check,  her  fleet  and  fearless 

way. 

Bliss,  mother,  now — grateful  mother,  bliss! 
Thy  babes  are  sheltered  in  thy  wild  embrace — 
Earth  has  no  moment  that  may  vie  with  this  — 
The  eye,  devouring  each  familiar  face, — 
The  straining  arms — the  fierce  and  hurried  kiss— 
The  brief  pure  blessing — the  reproachful  zeal — 
The  penitence  for  mother's  care  remiss  — 

,    The  rapturous  anguish  none  but  mothers  feel! 
Oh — who  shall  say  that  life  has  aught  below 

Of  tears  unmixed  with  smiles,  or  joy  undimmed  by  wol 


£  HE    DEATH   OF   SOTO. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF   "THE  BROTHERS." 


But  wind  me  in  a  banner  bright — 
A  banner  of  Castile  — 

And  let  the  war-drums  round  me  roll, 
The  trumpets  o'er  me  peal ! — 

And  bury  me  at  noon  of  night, 
When  gone  is  Ihe  sultry  gleam  — 

At  noon  of  night  — by  torches'  light- 
In  the  Mississippi  stream. 

Old  Ballad. 


It  \vas  the  evening  of  a  sultry  day,  sultry  almost 
beyond  endurance,  although  the  season  had  not 
advanced  beyond  the  early  spring-time;  the  sun, 
though  shrouded  from  human  eyes  by  a  dense  veil  of 
moist  and  clammy  vapor,  was  pouring  down  a  flood 
of  intolerable  heat  upon  the  pathless  cane-brakes,  the 
deep  bayous,  haunts  of  the  voracious  and  unseemly 
alligator,  and  the  forests,  steaming  with  excess  of 
vegetation,  through  which  the  endles^^  river  rolled 
its  dark  current.  On  a  steep  bluflf^  projecting  into 
the  bosorn  of  the  waters,  at  the  confluence  of  some 
nameless  tributary  and  the  vast  Mississippi,  stood  the 
dwelling  of  the  first  whitfe- man  that  ever  trod  those 
boundless  solitudes.  —  It  was  a  rude  and  shapeless 


THE  DEATH  OP   SDTO.  15 

edifice  of  logs,  hewn  from  the  cypresses  and  cedars 
of  the  swamp,  which  lay  outstretched  for  a  thousand 
miles  around,  by  hands  unused  to  aught  of  base  or 
menial  labor ;  —  yet  were  there  certain  marks  of 
comfort,  and  even  of  luxury,  to  be  traced  in  the 
decorations  and  appliances  of  that  log-cabin ;  a  veil 
of  sea-green  silk  was  drawn  across  the  ajjerture, 
which  perforated  the  massy  timbers  of  the  wall ;  a 
heavy  drapery  of  crimson  velvet,  decked  with  a  fringe 
and  embroidery  of  gold,  Avas  looped  up  to  the  low 
lintels,  as  if  to  admit  whatever  breath  of  air  might 
sweep  along  the  channel  of  the  river.  Nor  were 
these  all  —  a  lofty  staff  was  pitched  before  the  door, 
from  which  drooped,  in  gorgeous  folds,  the  yellow 
banner,  rich  with  the  castled  blazonry  of  Spain ;  and 
beside  it  a  tall  warrior  —  sheathed  from  head  to  heel 
in  burnished  armor,  with  gilded  spur,  and  belted 
brand  —  stalked  to  and  fro,  as  though  he  were  on 
duty  upon  some  tented  plain,  in  his  own  land  ot 
chivalry  and  song.  At  a  short  distance  in  the  rear 
might  be  observed  a  camp,  if  by  that  name  might  be 
designated  a  confused  assemblage  of  huts,  suited  for 
the  accommodation  of  five  hundred  men;  horses  were 
picqueted  around ;  spears,  decked  with  pennon  and 
pennoncel  and  all  the  bravery  of  knightly  warfare, 
were  planted  beforo  the  dwellings  of  their  owners ; 
sentinels  in  gleaming  mail  paced  their  accustomed 
rounds.  But  in  that  strange  encampment,  there  was 
no  mirth,  no  bustle  —  not  even  the  low  hum  of  con- 
verse, or  the  note  of  preparation.  —  The  soldiers  glided 
to  and  fro,  with  humbled  gait  and  sad  demesanor ;  the 


16  THE   DEATH  OF   SOTO. 

very  chargers  drooped  their  proud  heads  to  the 
ground,  and  appeared  to  lack  sufficient  animation  to 
dash  aside  the  swarms  of  venomous  flies,  that  battened, 
as  it  seemed,  upon  their  very  life-blood ;  the  huge  bbod- 
hounds,  those  dread  auxiliaries  of  Spanish  warfare, 
of  which  a  score  or  two  were  visible  among  the 
cabins,  lay  slumbering  in  listless  indolence,  or  drag- 
ged themselves  along,  after  the  heels  of  their  masters, 
with  slouching  crests,  and  in  attitudes  widely  different 
from  the  fierce  activity  of  their  usual  motions.  Pesti- 
lence and  famine  were  around  them  —  on  the  thick 
and  breezeless  air — on  the  dark  waters — in  the 
deep  morass,  and  in  the  vaults  of  the  pine  forest, 
the  seeds  of  death  were  floating — avengers  of  the 
luckless  tribes,  already  scattered  or  enslaved  by  the 
iron  arm  of  European  war.  Oh — how  did  they 
pine  for  the  clear  streams  of  Guadalquivir,  or  the 
viny  banks  of  Xeres — for  the  breezy  slopes  of  the 
Alpuxarras,  or  the  snoAV-clad  summits  of  their  native 
Sierras  —  those  fated  followers  of  the  demon  gold- 
How  did  their  recollections  doat  upon  the  waving 
palms,  and  orange-groves,  the  huertas  and  the  meads 
of  fair  Granada !  In  vain  —  in  vain  !  —  ~*f  all  those 
gallant  hundreds,  who  had  leaped  in  confidence  and 
hope  from  their  proud  brigantines  upon  the  glowing 
shores  of  Florida,  glittering  in  polished  steel,  and 
"very gallant  with  silk  upon  silk,"*  who  had  travers- 
ed the  wild  country  of  the  Appalachians,  who  bad 
seen  the  gleam  of  Spanish  arms  reflected  from  the 

♦  Bancr^'t's  History  of  the  United  Sta'es,  vol.  i.  p.  4£ 


THE    DEATH    OF    SOTO  17 

b.ack  Jtreanis  of  Alabama,  who  had  made  he  bound- 
less prairies  of  Missouri  ring  with  the  unechoed 
notes  of  the  Castilian  trumpet,  who  had  spread  the 
terrors  of  the  Spanish  name,  with  all  its  barbarous 
accompaniments  of  havoc  and  slaughter,  through 
wilds  untrod  before  by  feet  of  civilized  man.  —  Of  all 
those  gallants  hundreds,  but  a  weak  and  wasted 
moiety  was  destined  to  reach  the  shores  of  their  far 
fatherland;  and  that — not,  as  they  had  fondly  deem- 
ed, in  the  pride,  the  exultation,  and  the  wealth  ot 
conquest,  but  in  want,  and  weariness,  and  wo. 

The  arrows  of  the  savage,  and  the  yet  fiercer 
arrows  of  the  plague,  dearly  repaid  the  injuries  that 
they  had  wreaked  already  on  the  wretched  natives  — 
dearly  repaid  too,  as  it  were  by  anticipation,  the 
wrongs  that  their  children,  and  their  children's  chil- 
dren, should  wreak  in  long  prospective  on  the  forest- 
dwellers  of  the  west. 

There,  in  that  lonely  hut  —  there  lay  the  proudest 
spirit — the  bravest  heart  —  the  mightiest  intellect  — 
the  favorite  comrade  of  Pizarro  —  the  joint-conqueror 
of  Peru  !  —  There  lay  Hernan  de  Soto  —  his  fiery 
energies,  even  more  than  the  hot  fever,  wearing  away 
his  mortal  frame;  his  massive  brow  clogged  w:th  the 
black  sweat  of  death ;  his  eye  —  that  had  flashed  the 
more  brilliantly  the  deadlier  was  the  f  eril  —  dim  and 
filmy ;  his  high  heart  sick  —  sick  and  fearful,  not  for 
himself,  but  for  his  followers ;  his  hopes  of  conquest, 
fame,  dominion,  gone  like  the  leaves  of  autumn! 
There  he  lay,  miserably  perishing  by  inches,   the 


.: -.-;;^n- 

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mas^  aat'  iwr :  Tisacr  ss*i»  "ws:  Ton:  :hk-  tsens  js 

It 

idfe-  iffiujasBsc  jsals  v.     .    .  ..   :.   mser  lis 

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TITir"      liT.T?  n--'— M'r     HOtrr:.                                             -— T       VJil      EI 
^BUL   "^rrr     Tff^   Si    TftF"     TTIlTTr    TeSlBt  ITT  TVT IW" 

«ibe?r  :a»fSg  arr  jet  -ss  ' '  — 

f  -iX  I  B^Jsae  i:^'  — TT-tfi  ire   flaerr    masritc. 

i.     -i::: — 


m  THE    DEATH    OF    SOTO. 

make  proclamation!"  A  moment  or  two  elapsed, 
and  the  wild  flourish  of  the  trumpets  was  heard  with- 
out, and  the  sonorous  voice  of  the  heralds  making 
proclamation — they  ceased — but  there  was  no  shout 
of  triumph  or  applause. 

"  Ha,  by  St.  Jago!  ' — cried  the  dying  chief  —  "Ha! 
by  St.  Jago  —  but  this  must  not  be  —  'tis  ominous  and 
evil!  —  Go  forth,  thou,  Vasco — and  bid  them  sound 
again,  and  let  my  people  shout  for  this  their  loyal 
leader." 

It  was  done,  and  a  gleam  of  triumphant  satisfaction 
shot  across  his  hollow  features.  He  spoke  again,  but 
it  was  with  a  feebler  voice  — 

"  I  am  going" — he  said  —  "I  am  going,  whence 
there  is  no  return! — :  Now,  mark  me  —  by  your 
plighted  word  1  do  command  )'ou  —  battle  no  farther 
—  strive  with  the  fates  no  farther  —  for  the  fates  are 
adverse! — -Conquer  not  thou  this  region  —  for  I 
have  conquered  it  —  and  it  is  mine!  Mine,  mine  — 
though  dying! — Mine  it  shall  be  though  dead!  — 
March  to  the  coast  as  best  ye  may  —  build  ye  such 
vessels  as  may  bear  ye  fi  m  the  main,  and  save 
this  remnant  of  my  people!  —  Wilt  thou  do  this  — 
as  thou  hast  pledged  thyself  to  do  it,  noble  Moscoso?" 

"  By  all  my  hopes,  I  will !" 

"  Mr,  then,  me  shall  ye  bury  thus  !  —  Not  with 
lamentations  —  not  with  womanish  tears  —  not  with 
vile  so.Tow  —  but  with  the  rejoicing  anthom  —  with 
the  blare  of  the  trumpet,  and  the  sforniy  music  of  the 
drum!  —  Yo  shall  sheath  nie  in  my  mail  —  wit!i  uiy 
'n'liuit   (III   II  V  lii'ad    and   my   -spur  on    niv  Iwcl  ' 


THE    DEATH    OP   SOTO.  21 

A^ith  my  sword  in  my  hand  shall  ye  bury  me  —  and 
with  a  banner  of  Castile  for  my  shroud !  —  In  the 
depths  of  the  river  —  of  my  river  —  shall  ye  bury  me ! 
with  lighted  torch  and  volleyed  musketry  at  the  mid 
hour  of  night !  For  am  I  not  a  conqueror  —  a  con- 
queror of  a  world  —  a  conqueror  with  none  to  brave 
my  arm,  or  to  gainsay  my  bidding?  Where  — 
where  is  the  man,  savage  or  civilized  —  christian  or 
heathen  —  Indian  or  Spaniard  —  who  hath  defied 
Hernan  de  Soto,  and  not  perished  from  the  earth  ?  — 
Death  is  upon  me  —  d^ath  from  the  Lord  of  earth 
and  heaven  !  — To  him  I  do  submit  me — but  to  mor- 
tal never !" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  a  warder  entered  the  low  door- 
way, and  whispered  a  brief  message  to  Moscoso. 
Slight  as  were  the  sounds,  and  dim  as  waxed  the 
senses  of  De  Soto,  he  marked  the  entrance  of  the 
soldier,  and  eagerly  inquired  the  purport  of  the  news! 

"A  messenger"  —  was  the  reply — "an  Indian 
runner  —  from  the  Natchez  !" 

"Admit  him — he  bears  submission — admit  him, 
so  shall  I  die  with  triumph  in  my  heart!" 

The  Indian  entered  —  a  man  of  stern  features,  and 
of  well-nigh  giant  stature.  —  His  head,  shaven  to  the 
chivalrous  scalp-lock,  was  decked  with  the  plumes  of 
the  war-eagle,  mingled  with  the  feathers  of  a  gayer 
hue  —  his  throat  was  circled  by  a  necklace,  strung 
from  the  claws  of  the  grizzly  bear  and  cougar,  fearfully 
mixed  with  tufts  of  human  hair  —  his  lineaments 
were  covered  with  the  black  w^ar-paint  —  in  one 
hand  he  bore  the  crimson  war-pipe,  and  in  the  other 


22  THE   DEATIT    OF    SOTO. 

the  well-known,  emblem  of  Indian  hostility,  a  bundle 
of  shafts  bound  in  the  skin  of  the  rattlesnake!  — -With 
a  noiseless  step  he  crossed  the  chamber,  he  flung  the 
deadly  gift  upon  the  death-bed  of  De  Soto  —  he  raised 
the  red  pipe  to  his  lips  —  he  puffed  the  smoke  —  and 
then,  in  wild  accents  of  his  native  tongue,  bore  to 
the  Spaniards  the  defiance  of  his  tribe,  concluding  his 
speech  with  the  oft  heard  and  unforgotten  cadences 
of  the  war-whoop !  — 

As  the  dying  leader  caught  the  raised  tone  of  the 
Indian's  words  —  his  eye  had  lightened,  and  his  brow 
contracted  into  a  writhing  frown !  He  k^.ew  the 
import  of  his  speech,  by  the  modulations  of  his  voice — 
his  lip  quivered  —  his  chest  heaved  —  his  hands 
clutched  the  thin  coverlid,  as  though  they  were  grap- 
pling to  the  lance  or  rapier.  The  wild  notes  of  the 
war-whoop  rang  through  his.  ehrs  —  and  in  death  — 
in  death  itself,  the  ruling  passion  was  pi-evalont — - 
manifestly,  terribly  prevalent ! 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  —  his  form  dilating,  and  his 
features  flashing  with  all  the  energy  of  life  —  "St. 
Jago"  —  he  shouted  —  "  for  Spain  !  —  for  Spain  !  — 
Soto  and  victory  !"  —  and  with  an  impotent  cflbrt  to 
strike,  he  fell  flat  upon  his  face  at  the  feet  of  the 
Indian,  who  had  provoked  his  dying  indigHiition !  — 

They  raised  him  —  but  a  flood  of  gore  had  gushed 
from  eyes,  mouth,  ears  —  he  had  burst  some  one  of 
the  larger  vesfels  —  and  was  already  lifeless,  iTe  he 
struck  the  ground  !  — 

The  sun  had  even  now  sunki^low  the  horizon  — 
and,  ere  the  preparations  for  his   fniunl    Ii.id  been 


THE    DEATH    OF    SOTO.  ^ 

completed,  it  was  abeady  midnight.  Five  hundred 
torches  of  the  resinous  pine  tree  flashed  with  their 
crimson  reflections  on  the  turbid  water,  as  the  barks 
glided  over  its  surface,  bearing  the  warrior  to  his  last 
home. 

A  train  of  cowled  priests,  with  pix  and  crucifix 
and  steaming  censer,  floated  in  the  van,  making  the 
vaulted  woods  to  echo  the  high  notes  of  the  Te  Deum, 
chanted  in  lieu  of  the  mournful  Miserere  over  the 
mortal  part  of  that  ill-fated  warrior. 

But  as  the  canoe  came  onward  in  which  the  corpse 
was  placed — seated  erect,  as  he  had  ordered  it,  with 
the  good  sword  in  the  dead  hand,  the  polished  helmet 
glancing  above  the  sunken  features,  and  the  gay  ban- 
ner of  Castile  floating  like  a  mantle  from  the  shoulders 
—  the  pealing  notes  of  the  trumpet,  and  the  roll  of  the 
battle-drum,  and  the  Spanish  Avar-cry  —  "  St.  Jago  for 
De  Soto  and  for  Spain" — and  the  crash  of  the  volley- 
ing arquebuses  might  be  heard,  startling  the  wild 
beasts,  and  the  wilder  Indians,  of  the  forest,  for  leagues 
around. 

There  was  a  pause  —  a  deep,  deep  pause — a  sullen 
splash  —  and  every  torch  was  instantly  extinguished. 
— "  The  discoverer  of  the  Mississippi  slept  beneath 
its  waters.  He  had  crossed  a  large  part  of  the  conti- 
nent in  search  of  gold,  and  found  nothing  so  lemarka* 
ble  as  his  burial  place. "  —  * 

*  Bancroft's  History.— Portuguese  Relafion, 


THE    CONaUEROR. 


A  DREAM. 


I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
Tliat  gave  my  spirit  power  to  sweep 
Adown  tlie  gulf  of  time. 

Campbblu 


Methought  I  Stood  near  to  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
Above  my  head  towered  those  amethystine  ramparts, 
which  had  laughed  to  scorn,  ages  before  the  birth  of 
time,  the  menaces  of  Lucifer  and  his  rebellious  crew. 
Before  me,'  within  the  opeh  portals,  was  a  flood  o! 
glory  —  a  sea  of  brilliant,  everlasting,  spirit-dazzling 
lustre,  and  amid  the  empyrean  were  angelic  shapes, 
winged  and  beautiful,  yet  magnificent  withal,  and 
fearful.  And  I  heard  a  voice,  as  of  ten  thousand 
silver  trumpets,  cry — "  Place  for  the  Conqueror!"  — 

And  there  was  a  atir  among  the  multitudes,  that 
crowded  the  vast  ar  !a  before  the  gates — for  myriads 
of  shadowy  forms  stood  there,  waiting  the  fiat  of  their 
destiny,  —  men — old,  and  in  the  prime  of  power,  and 
in  the  golden  flush  of  youth, —  matrons,  and  maids, 
and  infants,  —  some  pale  and  conscience-stricken, 
cringmg  like  hounds  beneath  the  lash, — others 
serenely  joyous,  calm  in  tha  chastened  ecst;isy  of 
hope,  that  doubtcth  not  nor  feareth. 


THij;    CONaUEKOR.  2b 

* 

Aiiu  a  shape  stood  forvvard  at  the  summons ;  — 
«  shape,  proud,  and  majestic,  and  most  rich  in  all 
those  attributes,  that  bow  men  down  before  their 
fellow  mortals.  On  his  brow  there  was  the  likeness 
of  an  imperial  crown,  woven  with  leaves  of  the  green 
bay  tree  —  his  eye,  bold  as  the  eagle's,  seemed  to 
gaze  around  in  the  vain  hope  to  find  a  rival  —  his  lip 
was  wreathed  with  an  exulting  smile.  But  on  the 
brow,  beneath  the  crown,  were  furrows  —  deep  blight- 
ed furrows,  dug  by  the  burning  ploughshare  of  the 
passions  ;  and  on  the  green  leaflets  vv^ere  broad  gouts 
of  blood ;  and  in  the  eagle  eye  there  was  a  glance  of 
restlessness  and  of  distrust,  of  aspirations  never  to  be 
realized,  of  ambition  unquenched,  unquenchable  ;  and 
on  the  smiling  lip,  there  was  a  curl  of  melancholy 
scorn,  and  at  times  a  quiver,  as  of  inward  agony. 

And  he  answered,  with  tones  deep  as  the  lion's 
roar  when  the  deserts  are  hushed  in  terror  — "  Lo,  I 
am  here!"  — 

And  the  voice  cried  again,  from  within  the  gates  — 
"Truly  thou  art  a  conqueror — thou  man  ol  blood, 
thou  reaper  of  the  harvest  of  death,  thou  scourge  of 
thine  ill-fated  race, — truly  thou  art  a  conqueror,  and 
for  thee  is  there  a  place  made  ready — but  not  here!' 

And  the  shape  vanished,  but  I  saw  not  how,  noi 
whither — and  there  was  silence.  And  again  the 
voice  cried  —  "  Place  for  the  Conqueror!"  — 

And  a  shape  stood  forward  at  the  summons; — but 
most  unlike  the  former.  —  The  countenance,  though 
high  and  noble,  was  emaciate,  and  pale,  and  mourn- 
ful;   and   the   locks,  although  unmixed  with   gray, 

3 


«  THE  CONQUEROR. 

weve  thin  and  scattered ;  and  the  frame  wes  I  ent,  and 
the  limbs  feeble.  Yet  on  those  mournful  features 
there  played  a  smile  of  more  than  earthly  sweetness ; 
and  in  the  eye,  the  full  dark  eye,  was  a  wild  glance, 
now  melting  into  the  liquid  depths  of  tenderness,  now- 
flashing  with  ineffable  fire  —  and  the  gaze  of  that  dark 
eye  was  upward — still  upward!  —  For  the  laurel 
crown  btneath  his  feet  was  withered,  and  the  sweet 
strings  of  the  lyre  in  his  hand  were  "jangled,  out  ol 
tune,  and  harsh,"  and  the  jeer  and  the  scoff"  and  the 
envy  of  the  cold  world  were  in  his  ears,  and  in  his 
soul  I — And  with  a  high  yet  melancholy  smile,  as 
though  he  knew  of  his  own  worth,  yet  doubted  its 
reception,  he  said  likewise  —  "Lo,  I  am  here!" — 

And  again  the  voice  Avas  heard,  crying  — "  Truly, 
thou  also  art  a  conqueror !  —  The  conqueror  of  time 
and  place — the  ruler  of  the  young  fresh  heart — the 
soother  of  want  and  weariness  and  wo — the  lord  of 
language  and  of  love — the  conqueror  of  the  soul, 
even  as  he  was  conqueror  of  the  body !  Truly,  thou, 
art  a  conqueror,  and  for  thee  also  there  is  a  place 
made  ready — a  place  here — among,  though  not 
itself,  the  highest!"  — 

And  the  shape  vanished,  but  I  saw  not  how,  or 
whither  —  and  there  was  silence.  And  again  the  voice 
cried  — "  Place  for  the  Conqueror  !"  — 

And  a  shape  stood  forward  at  the  summons;  —  a 
shape,  not  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  men,  nor 
gorgeous  with  the  trappings  of  rank,  nor  rich  with 
the  endowments  of  genius.  —  But  over  the  homely 
form,  and  over  the  humble  features,  there  was  a  glow 


THE   CONQUEROR.  « 

of  pure  and  pious  radiance — anc  beneath  the  feet  of 
the  shape  lay  wealth  immeasurable  —  crowns  of  dig- 
nity, and  scrolls  of  fame  —  rejected,  though  not 
disdained  —  and  the  homage  of  men,  anc  the  love  ot 
women  — doubted,  but  not  despised! — and  around 
him,  there  we^'e  slaves  with  tlieir  fetters  broken,  now 
slaves  no  longer,  with  uplifted  arms,  and  voices  — 
and  widows  calling  on  him  to  behold  the  orphans  he 
had  rescued  —  and  men  won  from  the  vainness,  and 
the  wilfulness  of  their  own  imaginations  —  and  nations 
blessing  the  benefactor  of  the  poor,  the  enemy  of  the 
oppressor,  and  the  friend  of  the  most  High ! 

And  the  humble  shape  stood  forward  —  confident, 
as  it  seemed,  and  fearless  —  and  the  lips  moved — 
perchance  in  prayer,  for  no  words  went  forth,  nor  any 
answer  to  the  summons. 

And  again,  from  within  the  portals,  the  voice 
cried  —  "Truly  thou  art  the  conqueror — thcu  holy 
one!  The  conqueror  of  fear  and  fa.sehood — of  sin 
and  despair  I — The  conqueror  of  the  passions — ol 
the  world  —  and  of  thyself!  Stand  forth! — Stand 
forth,  thou  conqueror !  —  For  thee  is  the  place  made 
ready  —  highest  and  nearest  to  mine  own  —  enter, 
thou  conqueror." 

And  amidst  the  greetings  of  the  angelic  hosts, 
sweeping  from  immeasurable  distann.,  a  cataract  oi 
living  harmony  —  and  amid  the  mingled  melody  ol 
harps  and  halleluiahs,  that  shape  passed  through  the 
everlasting  portals.  —  And  as  he  passed,  I  woke,  and 
lo,  it  was  a  dream !  H. 


TO    AN    OSTRICH    FEaTHER, 

IN  A  LADY'S  HEAD-DRESS.* 


Frailest  and  fairest  of  the  things  of  earth, — 
?Tloved  by  each  breezy  wing  that  fans  the  depth 
Of  the  blue  vault — yea!   sullied  by  a  touch, 
That  had  not  soiled  the  pure  and  virgin  snow  — 
What  or  whence  art  thou  —  so  to  be  advanced 
Pre-eminently — so  to  kiss  the  cheek, 
Bask  in  the  smile,  and  revel  on  the  lip. 
Of  one,  to  whose  least  pleasure  kings  might  bow, 
Casting  their  coronals,  and  palmiest  state. 
Before  her  feet,  mosf  happy  so  to  win 
One  favoring  glance  of  those  immortal  eyes. 
Fraught  with  the  hue,  the  I'ght,  tlie  love  of  heaven ?- 

Child  of  the  lone  and  solitary  wastes 
Of  red  Sahara,  by  the  desert  ship 
Cast  as  a  triJjute  to  the  hot  simoom, 
That  fills  her  surgy  vans,  what  time  elate 
She  lifts  herself  on  high,  and  scorns  the  might 
Of  steed  and  rider!  —  The  one  living  thing, 
That  loveth  not  her  young,  nor  folds  thorn  close 
Beneath  her  Aving,  nor  guards  them  with  her  life!  - 

♦  See  Frontispiece-  The  White  Plume. 


T,0   AN    OSTRICH    FEATHER.  2:) 

The  giant  bird  —  to  which  God  gave  nor  sense, 
Nor  natural  instinct,  to  preserve  her  race !  — 

Oh  !  hadst  thou  speech  —  what  scenes  'twere  thinfl 
to  tell, 
Of  steeds  Arabian,  and  of  scorching  sands 
Watered  with  innocent  gore,  when  thou  perchance 
Didst  deck  the  swarthy  robber's  turbaned  brow, 
Waving  from  far,  the  signal  of  despair. 
To  the  worn  pilgrim,  fainting  in  the  sun ! — 
And  thence  of  argosy,  or  caravel. 
And  ocean  marvels,  which  thou  didst  survey  — 
Beyond  the  straits  Herculean,  and  the  isles 
Once  titled  of  the  blest  —  stemming  the  surge 
Of  mightier  seas  than  lave  thy  parent  shore ;  — 
Where  erst  broad  Atalantis,  with  her  crown 
Of  palmy  forests,  and  savannahs  green, 
And  mountains  bathing  their  snow-circled  heads 
In  the  mid  azure,  courted  the  rent  sail 
Of  storm-tossed  mariner  —  submerged  now, 
And  lost  in  gulphing  waves,  that  thence  did  win 
Its  name  Atlantic  for  the  western  main ! 

Thrice  happy  thou,  to  fall  on  latter  days. 
And    shores    Columbian  —  thou  that  mightst    hura 

shone, 
In  the  dark  centuries  of  the  middle  time, 
A  thing  of  slaughter,  on  the  steely  crest 
Of  Prince  or  Paladin  —  a  standard-plume, 
A  nd  rallying  point,  above  the  dust  and  din, 
The  hellish  uproar  and  the  trumpet's  yell ! 

3* 


•80  MUSIC. 

More  glorious  now,  and  happier  far,  to  float 
[n  the  rich  atmosphere  of  beauty's  breath  — 
A.  thing  of  love  —  a  cynosure  of  hearts  — 
A  fleecy  cloud,  veiling,  but  shadowing  not, 
A  starry  constellation  of  twin  eyes, 
Brightest  and  best  ol  all  the  lights  m  heaveti  f 


MUSIC. 


Tender,  and  soft,  and  slow, 

The  solemn  numbers  flow, 
Like  the  low  cadence  of  the  tranquil  sea ; 

My  spirit  feels  her  own 

Each  simple  moving  tone, 
More  dear  than  aught  of  strange  sublimity  f 

Oh  !   if,  in  yonder  sky. 

The  breast's  glad  melody 
Finds  utterance  in  music  such  as  ours, 

May  not  the  once  loved  strain 

There  breathe,  at  times,  again. 
Bringing  sweet  memories  )fvar>sh'd  hours?  — 

SiGNORINA. 


e  «  c  c, 
c  ,.  c  e 

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€  C 

C   r   t   c 


C   C  C   C 

•  «  <  « 

»  c  c  c 
c  o  c   t 


ODE    TO    JA.MESTOWN. 


By   J.    K.    PAULDING. 


Old  cradle  of  an  infant  world, 
In  which  a  nestling  empire  lay, 
Struggling  awhile,  'ere  she  unfurl' d. 
Her  gallant  wing  and  soar'd  away. 
All  hail !  thou  birthplace  of  the  glowing  west,- 
Thou  seem' St  the  towering  eagle's  ruin'd  nest ! 

What  solemn  recollections  throng, 

What  touching  visions  rise, 

As  wand' ring  these  old  stones  among, 

I  backward  turn  mine  eyes, 
And  see  the  shadows  of  the  dead  flit  round, 
Like  spirits,  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall  sound 

The  wonders  of  an  age  combin'd 
In  one  short  moment  memory  supplies, 
They  throng  upon  my  waken' d  mind, 
As  time's  dark  curtains  rise. 
The  volume  of  a  hundred  buried  years, 
Cc^dens'd  in  one  bright  sheet,  appears. 


82  ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN. 

1  hear  the  angry  ocean  rave, 

I  see  the  lonely  little  barque 

Scudding  along  the  crested  wave, 

Freighted  like  old  Noah's  ark, 
As  o'er  the  drowned  earth  it  whirl'd, 
With  the  forefathers  of  another  world. 

I  see  u.  train  of  exiles  stand. 

Amid  the  desert,  desolate, 

The  fathers  of  my  native  land, 

The  darmg  pioneers  of  fate, 
Who  brav'd  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  earth, 
And  gave  a  boundless  empire  birth. 

I  see  the  gloomy  Indian  range 

His  woodland  empire,  free  as  air ; 

I  see  the  gloomy  forest  change. 

The  shadowy  earth  laid  bare, 
And,  where  the  red  man  chas'd  the  bounding  d<^r, 
The  smiling  labours  of  the  white  appear. 

I  see  the  haughty  warrior  gaze 

In  wonder  or  in  scorn, 

As  the  pale  faces  sweat  to  raise 

Their  scanty  fields  of  corn. 
While  he,  the  monarch  of  the  boundless  wood, 
By  sport,  or  hairbrain'd  rapine,  wins  his  food. 

A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  gone ; 

The  red  men  are  no  more ; 

The  pale  fac'd  strangers  stand  alone 

Upon  the  river's  shore  ; 
And  the  proud  wood  king,  who  their  arts  disdain' d, 
Finds  but  a  bloody  grave,  where  once  he  reign'd. 


ODE  to   JAMESTOWN.  33 

The  forest  reels  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  sturdy  \yoodman's  axe; 

Th3  earth  receives  the  white  man's  yoke. 

And  pays  her  willing  tax 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  golden  harvest  fields, 
And  all  that  nature  to  blithe  labour  yields. 

Then  growing  hamlets  rear  their  heads. 

And  gathermg  crowds  expand. 

Far  as  my  fancy's  vision  spreads, 

O'er  many  a  boundless  land. 
Till  what  was  once  a  world  of  savage  strife, 
Teems  with  the  richest  gifts  of  social  life. 

Empire  to  empire  swift  succeeds. 

Each  happy,  great,  and  free ; 

One  empire  still  another  breeds, 

A  giant  progeny. 
To  war  upon  the  pigmy  gods  of  earth. 
The  tyrants,  to  whom  ignorance  gave  birth. 

Then,  as  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  trace 
The  fount  whence  these  rich  waters  sprung, 
I  glance  towards  this  lonely  place, 
And  find  it,  these  rude  stones  among. 
Here  rest  the  sires  of  millions,  sleeping  sound, 
The  Argonauts,  the  golden  fleece  that  found. 

Their  names  have  been  forgotten  long : 

The  stone,  but  not  a  word,  remains ; 

They  cannot  live  in  deathless  song, 

Nor  breathe  in  pious  strains. 
Yet  this  sublime  obscurity,  to  me 
More  touching  is.  than  poet's  rhapsody. 


M  O  D  E  TO    J  A  M  R  S  T  O  W  N . 

They  live  in  millions  that  now  breathe; 
They  live  in  millions  yet  unborn, 
And  pious  gratitude  shall  wreathe 
As  bright  a  crov  a  as  e'er  was  worn, 
And  hang  it  on  t^he  g:een  leav'd  bough. 
That  whispers  to  the  nameless  dead  below. 

No  one  that  inspiration  drinks ; 

No  one  that  loves  his  native  land ; 

No  one  that  reasons,  feels,  or  thinks, 

Can  'mid  these  lonely  ruins  stand, 
Without  a  moisten'd  eye,  a  grateful  tear. 
Of  reverent  gratitude  to  those  that  moulder  hern. 

The  mighty  shade  now  hovers  round  — 
Of  HIM  whose  strange,  yet  bright  career, 
Is  written  on  this  sacred  ground 
In  letters  that  no  time  shall  sere ; 
Who  in  the  old  world  smote  the  turban'd  crew, 
And  founded  Christian  Empires  in  the  new. 

And  SHE  !   the  glorious  Indian  maid, 
The  tutelary  of  this  land. 
The  angel  of  the  woodland  shade. 
The  miracle  of  God's  own  hand. 
Who  join'd  man's  heart,  to  woman's  softest  grace, 
And  thrice  redeem'd  the  scourgers  of  her  race. 

Sister  of  charity  and  love. 
Whose  life  blood  was  soft  Pity's  tide, 
Dear  (Joddess  of  the  Sylvan  grove. 
Flower  of  the  Forest,  nature's  prid«, 
He  ia  no  man  who  does  not  bend  the  knee, 
And  she  no  voman  who  is  not  like  thee ! 


OI)i:    TO    JAMESTOWN.  3B 

Jamestown,  and  Plymouth's  hallow'd  rock, 

To  me  shall  ever  sacred  be — 

I  care  not  who  my  themes  mc.v  mock 

Or  sneer  at  them  and  me. 
I  envy  not  the  brute  who  here  can  stand, 
Without  a  prayer  for  his  own  native  land. 

And  if  ttie  recreant  crawl  her  eaitli, 

Or  breathe  Virginia's  air. 

Or,  in  New  England  claim  nis  oirth, 

From  the  old  Pilsfrim's  there. 
He  is  a  bastard,  if  he  dare  to  mock. 
Old  Jamestown's  shrine,  or  Plymouth's  famous  rock 


L  :'»  G  O  O  C  H  1 E 

OR, 

THE    BRANCH    OF    SWEET    WATER 

k  LEGEND  OF  GEORGIA. 

■T  THE  AUTHOR  OF  QTi  RiVBRS,  ATA.LANrit>,  AND  TUK  TBMAf>8aa 


riiese  woods  have  all  been  haunted,  and  the  power 
Of  spirits  still  aliides  in  tree  and  Uowor  ; 
They  have  their  tiny  elves  that  dance  by  night, 
When  the  leaves  sparkle  in  the  moonbeam's  light; 
And  the  wild  Indian  often,  as  he  flew 
Alon«:  llieir  water  in  his  birch  canne, 
Beheld,  in  the  soft  light  of  suipfner  eves. 
Strange  eyes  and  faces  peering  ihrutiu'li  tlie  leaves; 
Nor,  are  they  vanisli'd  yet. — The  woodman  sees. 
Even  now,  wild  Ibruis  thai  lurk  behind  the  trees; 
And  the  pine  forests  have  a  chanted  song, 
The  Indians  say,  must  linger  in  them  long. 

I 

WiiH  the  approach  of  the  white  settlers  along  th» 
wfld  but  pleasant  banks  of  the  St.  Mary's  river,  in 
ihe  state  of  Georgia,  the  startled  deities  of  Indian 
mythology  began  to  meditate  their  departure  to 
forests  more  secure.  Tribe  after  tribe  of  the  abori- 
gines had  already  gone,  and  tbe  uncouth  gods  ol 
their  idolatry,  presided,  in  numberless  instances,  only 
over  their  deserted  habitations.  The  savages  had  car- 
ried H'ith  them  no  guardian  divinities — no  hallowed 


I 


LOGOOCHIE.     .  3? 

household  altars — cheering  them,  in  their  new  places 
of  abode,  by  the  acceptance  of  their  sacrifice,  and 
with  the  pronjiseof  a  moderate  winter,  or  a  successful 
hunt.  In  depriving  them  of  the  lands  descended  to 
them  in  trust  from  their  fathers,  the  whites  seemed 
also  to  have  exiled  them  from  the  sweet  and  mystic 
influences,  so  aptly  associated  with  the  \'ague  loveli- 
ness of  forest  life,  of  their  many  twilight  superstitions. 
Their  new  groves,  as  yet,  had  no  spells  for  the  hunts- 
man ;  and  the  Manne3rto  of  their  ancient  sires  failed  to 
appreciate  their  tribute  offerings,  intended  to  propitiate 
his  regards,  or  to  disarm  his  anger.  They  were 
indeed  outcasts;  and,  with  a  due  feeling  for  their  exiled 
worshippers,  the  forest-gods  themselves  determined  also 
to  depart  from  those  long-hallowed  sheltering  places 
in  the  thick  swamps  of  the  Okephanokee,  whence, 
from  immemorial  time,  they  had  gone  forth,  to  cheer 
or  to  chide  the  tawny  hunter  in  his  progress  through 
life.  They  had  served  the  fathers  faithfully,  nor  were 
they  satisfied  that  the  sons  should  go  forth  unattended. 
I'hey  had  consecrated  his  dwellings,  they  had  stimu- 
lated his  courage,  they  had  thrown  the  pleasant  waters 
along  his  path,  when  his  legs  failed  him  in  the  chase, 
and  his  lips  were  parched  with  the  wanderings  of  the 
long  day  in  summer;  and  though  themselves  overcome 
in  the  advent  of  superior  gods,  they  had,  nevertheless, 
prompted  him  to  the  last,  in  the  protracted  struggle 
which  he  had  maintained,  for  so  many  years,  and 
with  such  various  successes,  against  his  pale  invaders 
All  that  could  be  done  for  the  feather-cro  ivned  and 
wolf-m?ntled  warrior,  had  been  done,  by  the  divinities 
4 


d8  LOGOOCHIE. 

He  worshipped.  He  was  overcome,  driA^en  away  from 
his  ancient  haunts,  but  he  still  bowed  in  spirit  to  the 
altars,  holy  still  to  him,  though,  haplessly,  without 
adequate  power  to  secure  him  in  his  possecsions. 
They  determined  not  to  leave  him  unprotected  in  his 
new  abodes,  and  gathering,  at  the  bidding  of  Satilla, 
the  Mercury  of  the  southern  Indians,  the  thousand 
gods  of  their  worship — the  wood-gods  and  the  water- 
gods —  crowded  to  the  flower-island  of  Okephauokee. 
to  hear  the  commands  of  the  Great  Manneyto. 

II. 

All  came  but  Logoochie,  and  where  was  he?  he. 
the  Indian  mischief-maker  —  the  Puck,  the  tncksiest 
spirit  of  them  all,  —  he,  whose  mind,  like  his  body, 
a  creature  of  distortion,  was  yet  gentle  in  its  wildness. 
and  never  suffered  the  smallest  malice  to  mingle  in 
with  its  mischief  The  assembly  was  dull  without 
him  —  the  season  cheerless  —  the  feast  wanting  in 
provocative.  The  C4reat  Manno^-to  himself,  with 
whom  Logoochie  was  a  favourite,  looked  impatiently 
on  the  approach  of  every  new  comer.  In  vaui  were 
all  his  inquiries  —  where  is  Logoochie?  who  has 
seen  Logoochie?  The  question  remained  unan- 
swered—  the  Great  Manneyto  ujisatisfied.  An.xious 
search  was  instituted  in  every  direction  for  the 
discovery  of -the  truant.  They  could  hear  nothing  of 
him,  and  all  scrutiny  proved  fruitless.  They  knew 
his  vagrant  spirit,  and  felt  confident  he  was  ,n;*>ne  upon 
some  mission  of  mischief;  but  they  also  knew  iiow 
far  beyond  any  capacity  of  their's  to  detect,  was  hi? 


LOGOOCIIIK.   ,  99 

to  conceal  himself,  and  so,  after  the  first  attempt  at 
searcli,  the  labour  was  given  tip  in  despair.  They 
could  get  no  tidings  of  Logoochie. 

lil. 

The  conference  vent  on  without  him,  much  to  the 
dissatisfaction  Df  a.  parties.  He  was  the  sjice  of 
the  entertainment,  the  spirit  of  all  frolic;  and  though 
sometimes  exceedingly  annoying,  even  to  the  Great 
Manneyto,  and  scarcely  less  so  to  the  rival  power  of 
evil,  the  Opitchi-Manneyto,  yet,  as  the  recognized 
joker  on  all  hands,  no  one  found  it  wise  to  take  offence 
at  his  tricks.  In  council,  he  relievea  the  dull  discourse 
of  some  drowsy  god,  by  the  sly  sarcasm,  which, 
falling  innocuously  upon  the  ears  of  the  victim,  was 
yet  readily  comprehended  and  applied  by  all  the  rest. 
On  the  journey,  he  kept  all  around  him  from  any 
sense  of  weariness,  —  and,  by  the  perpetual  practical 
application  of  his  humour,  always  furnished  his 
companions,  whether  above  or  inferior  to  him  in 
dignity,  with  something  prime,  upon  which  to  make 
merry.  In  short,  there  was  no  god  like  Logoochie, 
and  he  was  as  much  beloved  by  the  deities,  as  he 
was  honoured  by  the  Indian,  who  implored  him  not 
to  turn  aside  the  arrow  which  he  sent  after  the 
bounding  buck,  nor  to  spill  the  Avater  out  of  his 
scooped  leaf  as  he  carried  it  from  the  running  rivulet 
up  to  his  mouth.  All  these  wire  tricks  of  the  playful 
Logoochie,  and  by  a  thousand,  such  as  these,  was  he 
known  to  the  Indians, 


CO  LOO  jocniE. 

IV. 

Where,  then,  was  the  absentee  when    his  brother 

divinities  started  after  the  outlawed  tribes?     Had  he 

not  loved  the  Indians  —  had  he  no  sympathy  with  his 

associate  gods — -and  wherefore  went  he  not  upon  the 

sad  journey  through  the    many  swamps  and  the  long 

stretclies  of  sand  and  forest,    that   lay   between   the 

Okephanokee,  and  the  rapidly-rushing  waters  of  the 

Chatahoochie,  where  both  the  aborigines  and  their 

rude  deities  had  now  taken  up  their  abode.     Alas! 

for  Logoochie!      He  loved  the  wild  people,  it  is  true, 

and  much   he   delighted   in  the  association  of  those 

having  kindred  offices  with  himself;  but,  though  a 

mimic   and   a    jester,    fond    of    sportive   tricks,    and 

perpetually  practising  them  on  all  around  him,    he 

was  not  unlike  the  memorable  buffoon  of  Paris,  who, 

while  ministering  to  the  a^nnusement   of    thousands, 

possessing  them  with  an  infinitj'  of  fun  and  frolic, 

was  yet,  at  the  very  time,  craving  a  precious  mineral 

from  the  man  of  science  to  cure  him  of  his  confirmed 

hypochondria.     Such  was  the  condition  of  Logoochie. 

The  idea  of  leavmg  the  old  woods  and  the  waters  to 

which  he  had  been  so  long  accustomed,  and  which 

were   associated   in    his    memory   with   a    thousand 

instances  of  merriment,  was  too  much  for  his  most 

elastic  spirits  to  sustain;  and  the  summons  to  depart 

filled  him  with  a  namele«s,  and,   to   him,  a  hitherto 

unknown  form  of  terror.     His  organ  of  inhabitive- 

ness  had  undergone  prodigious  increase,  in  thw."ii:any 

exercises   which   his   mind   and    mood   had  pr>iciiseJ 

upon  the  banks  of    the  beautiful   Branch    of  SweO 


LOGOOCHIE.  41 

Water,  where  his  favourite  home  had  been  chosen  by 
a  felicitous  fancy.  It  was  indeed  a  spot  to  be  loved 
and  dwelt  i.pon,  and  he,  who  surveyed  its  clear  and 
quiet  waters,  sweeping  pleasantly  onward,  with  a 
gentle  murmur,  under  the  high  and  bending  pine 
trees  that  arched  over  and  fenced  it  in,  would  have 
no  wonder  at  its  elfect  upon  a  spirit  so  susceptible, 
amidst  aJl  his  frolic,  as  that  of  Logoochie.  The  order 
to  depart  made  him  miserable;  he  could  not  think  of 
doing  so:  and,  trembling  all  the  while,  he  yet  made 
ihe  solemn  determination  not  to  obey  the  command; 
but  rather  to  subject  himself,  by  his  refusal,  to  a  loss 
of  caste,  and,  perhaps,  even  severer  punishment,  should 
he  be  taken,  from  the  other  powers  having  guardian- 
ship with  himself  over  the  wandering  red  men. 
With  the  determination  came  the  execution  ■)f  his 
will.  He  secreted  himself  from  those  who  :.  ought 
him,  and  in  the  hollow  of  a  log  lay  secure,  even 
vhile  the  hunters  uttered  their  conjectures  and 
surmises  under  the  very  copse  in  which  he  was 
hidden.  His  arts  to  escape  were  manifold,  and,  unless 
the  parties  in  search  of  him  knew  intimately  his 
practices,  he  could  easily  elude  their  scrutiny  by  the 
simplest  contrivances.  Such,  too,  was  the  suscepti- 
bility of  his  figure  for  distortion,  that  even  Satilla,  the 
three-eyed,  the  messcHger  of  the  Indian  divinities, 
the  most  acute  and  cunning  among  them,  was  not 
unfrequently  overreached  and  evaded  by  the  truant 
Logoochie.  He  too  had  searched  for  him  in  vain, 
though  having  a  shrewd  suspicion,  as  he  stepped  over 
a  pine  knot  lying  across  a  branch,  just  about  dusk 

4' 


«3  LOGOOCHIE. 

that  it  was  something  more  than  it  seemed  to  be,  yel 
passing  on  without  examining  it,  and  leaving  the 
breathless  Logoochie,  for  it  was  he,  to  gather  himself 
up,  the  moment  his  pursuer  was  out  of  sight,  and  take 
himself  off  in  a  more  secluded  direction.  The  back 
of  Logoochie  was,  of  itself,  little  better  than  a  stripe 
of  the  tree-bark,  to  those  who  remarked  it  casually. 
From  his  heel  to  his  head,  inclusive,  it  looked  like  so 
many  articulated  folds  or  scales  of  the  pine  tree,  here 
and  there  bulging  out  into  excrescences.  The  back 
of  his  head  was  a  solid  knot,  for  all  the  world  like 
that  of  the  scorched  pine  knot,  hard  and  resinous. 
This  knot  ran  across  in  front,  so  as  to  arch  above  and 
overhang  his  forehead,  and  was  crowned  with  hair 
that,  though  soft,  was  thick  and  woody  to  the  eye, 
and  looked  not  unlike  the  pktes  of  the  pine-bur  when 
green  in  season.  It  rose  into  a  ridge  or  comb  directly 
across  the  head  from  front  to  rear,  like  the  war  tuft 
of  a  Seminole  warrior.  His  eyes,  small  and  red,- 
seemed,  occasionally,  to  run  into  one  another,  and 
twinkled  so,  that  you  could  not  avoid  laughing  but  to 
look  upon  them.  His  nose  was  flat,  and  the  mouth 
was  simply  an  incision  across  his  face,  reaching  nigh 
to  both  his  ears,  which  lapped  and  hung  over  like 
those  of  a  hound.  He  was  short  in  person,  thick, 
and  strangely  bow-legged ;  and,  to  complete  the 
uncouth  figure,  his  arms,  shooting  out  from  under  a 
high  knot,  that  gathered  like  an  epaulette  upoiVeach 
shoulder,  possessed  but  a  single  though  rather  fong 
bone,  and  terminated  in  a  thick,  squab,  bur-like  hand, 
having  fingers,  themselves  inflexible  and  but  of  sinLfJc 


LOGOOCHIE.  43 

'Oints,  and  tipped,  not  with  nails,  but  with  cl.iws, 
Boniewhat  like  those  of  the  panther,  and  equally 
learrul  in  strife.  Such  was  the  vague  general  out- 
.me  which,  now  and  then,  the  Indian  hunter,  and, 
aicer  him,  the  Georgia  squatter,  caught,  towards 
evennig,  of  the  wandering  Logoochie,  as  he  stole 
suadenly  from  sight  into  the  sheltering  copse,  that 
ran  along  the  edg-es  of  some  wide  savannah. 

The  brother  divinities  of  the  Creek  warriors  had 
gone  after  their  tribes,  and  Logoochie  alone  remained 
upon  the  banks  of  the  S^veet  Water  Branch.  He 
remamed  in  spite  of  many  reasons  for  departur(;. 
The  white  borderer  came  nigher  and  nigher,  with 
every  succeeding  day.  The  stout  log-house  started 
up  m  the  centre  of  his  favourite  "groves,  and  many 
families,  clustering  Avithin  a  few  miles  of  his  favourite 
stream,  formed  the  nucleus  of  the  flourishing  little 
town  of  St.  Mary's.  Still  he  lingered,  though  with 
a  sadness  of  spirit,  hourly  increasing,  as  every  hour 
tended  more  and  more  to  circumscribe  the  haunts  of 
his  playful  wandering.  Every  day  called  upon  him 
to  dep.ure  the  overthrow,  by  the  woodman's  axe,  of 
some  well-remembered  tree  in  his  neighbourhood  ; 
and  though  he  strove,  by  an  industrious  repetition  of 
his  old  tricks,  to  prevent  much  of  this  desolation, 
yet  th*^  Hivinities  which  the  Avhite  man  brought  with 
him  were  too  potent  for  Logoochie.  In  vain  did  he 
gnaw  Dv  night  the  sharp  edge  of  the  biting  steel, 
with  which  the  squatter  wrought  so  much  desolation. 
Alas ,  tiie  whi*e  man  had  an  art  given  him  by  his 
God    bv  "-hich  he  smoothed  out  the  repeated  gaps, 


<4  LOGOOCHIE. 

and  sharpened  it  readily  again,  or  found  a  new  op   , 
for   the    destruction    of  the   forest.     Over   and   over 
again  did   Logoochie  think  to  take  the  trail  of  his 
people,  and  leave  a  spot  in  which  a  petty  strife  n* 
this  nature  had  become,  though  a  familiar,  a  painful 
practice ;  but  then,  as  he  thought  of  the  humiliating 
acknowledgment  which,  by  so  doing,  he  must  offer 
to  his  brother  gods,  his  pride  came  to  his  aid,  and 
he  determined  to  remain  where  he  was.     Then  again 
as  he  rambled  along  the  sweet  waters  of  the  branch, 
and  talked  pleasantly  with  the  trees,  his  old  acquaint- 
ance, and  looked  down  upon   little  groups  of  Indian" 
that  occasionally  came  tu  visit  this  or  that  tumulus 
of  the  buried   nations,  he   felt  a  sweet  pleasure    m 
the  thought,    that '  though  all  had    gone   of  the  old 
possessors,  arid  a  new  people  and  new  gods  had  come 
to    sway   the   lands   of    ]As  outlawed   race,    he  still 
should  linger  and  watch  over,  with  a  sacred  regard 
*^"  few  relics,  and  the  speechless  trophies,  which  tlip 
>gotten    time    had    left   them.      He   determined    to 
emain    still,   as    he    long    had   been,   the   presiding 
genius  of  the  place. 

VI. 

From  habit,  at  length,  ;t  rnme  to  Logoochie  to 
serve,  with  kind  offices,  the  white  settlers,  just  as  nt< 
had  served  the  red  men  before  him.  He  soon  saw 
that  in  many  respects  the  people  dwelling  .n  trie 
woods,  however  different  their  colour  and  origen. 
must  necessarily  resemble  one  another.  They  were 
in  some  particulars  equally  wild  and  equally  simpie 


LOGOOCHIE.  46 

He  s )()»  discovereu  too,  that,  ho^^•ev(?r  much  they 
might  profess  indifference  to  the  superstitions  of  the 
barbarous  race  they  liad  superseded,  they  were  not  a 
whit  more  secure  from  the  occasional  tremors  which 
followed  his  own  practices  or  presence.  More  than 
once  had  he  marked  the  fright  of  the  you"iQ;'  wood- 
man, as,  looking  towards  nightfall  over  his  left 
shoulder,  he  had  beheld  the  funny  twinliling  eyes, 
and  the  long  slit  mouth,  receding  suddenly  into  the 
bush  behind  him.  This  assured  Logoochie  of  the 
possession  still,  even  with  a  new  people,  of  some  of 
that  power  which  he  had  exercised  upon  the  old ; 
and  when  he  saw,  too,  that  the  character  of  the  white 
man  was  plain,  gentle,  and  unobtrusive,  he  came, 
after  a  brief  study,  to  like  him  also  ;  though,  certainly, 
in  less  degree,  than  his  Indian  predecessors.  From 
one  step  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  new  comers,  to 
another,  Logoochie  at  length  began  to  visit,  at  stolen 
periods,  and  to  prowl  around  the  little  cottage,  of  the 
squatter ; — sometimes  playing  tricks  upon  his  house- 
hold, but  more  frequently  employing  himself  in  the 
analysis  of  pursuits,  and  of  a  character,  as  new  almost 
to  him  as  to  the  people  whose  places  they  had 
assumed.  Nor  will  this  seeming  ignorance,  on  the 
part  of  Logoochie,  subtract  a  single  jot  from  his  high 
pretension  as  an  Indian  god ;  since  true  philosophy 
and  a  deliberate  reason,  must  long  since  have  been 
aware,  that  the  mythological  rule  of  every  people, 
has  been  adapted,  by  the  superior  of  all,  to  their 
mental  and  physical  condition ;  and  the  Great  Man- 
neyto    of    the   savage,    in    lis   primitive   state,    was 


16  LQGOOCEIE 

dL-ubtless,  as  Wise  a  provision  for  huTi  then,  as.  ir. 
our  lime,  has  been  the  faith,  which  we  proudly 
assume  to  be  the  close  correlative  of  the  highest  point 
of  moral  liberty  and  social  refinement. 

VII. 

In  this  way,  making  new  discoveries  daily,  and 
gradually  becoming  known  himself,  though  vaguely, 
to  the  simple  cottagers  around  him,  he  continued  to 
pass  the  time  win  something  more  of  satisfaction 
than  before ;  though  still  suffering  pain  at  every 
stroke  of  the  sharp  and  smiting  axe,  as  it  called  up 
the  deploring  echoes  of  the  rapidly  yielding  forest. 
Day  and  night  he  was  busy,  and  he  resumed,  in 
extenso,  many  of  the  playful  humours,  which  used  to 
annoy  the  savages,  and  comj)el  their  homage.  It  is 
true,  the  acknowledgment  "of  the  white  man  was 
3ssentially  different  from  that  commonly  made  by  the 
Indians.  When  their  camp-pots  were  broken,  their 
hatchets  blunted,  their  bows  and  arrows  warped,  or 
they  had  suffered  any  other  sach  mischief  at  his 
hands,  they  solemnly  deprecated  his  wrath,  and 
offered  him  tribute  to  disarm  his  hostility.  All  that 
Logoochie  could  extort  from  the  bordeier,  was  .i 
sullen  oath,  in  which  the  tricksy  spirit  was  identified 
with  no  less  a  person  than  the  devil,  the  Opifchi- 
Manne^'to  of  the  southern  tribes.  This  —  a*'  Loijoo- 
chie  well  knew  the  superior  rank  of  that  personage 
with  his  people  —  he  esteemed  a  comp'iment ;  and  its 
utterance  was  at  all  times  sufficiently  t^ratefii!  in  Jiis 
ears  to   neutralize    his   spleen    at    the    moment.     In 


L  O  H  O  O  C  H  1  £  .      .  n 

addition  to  this,  the  habit  of  smoking  more  frequently 
and  freely  than  the  Indians,  so  common  to  the  white 
man,  contributed  ■wonderfully  to  commend  him  to  the 
favour  of  Logoochie.  '1  he  odor  in  his  nostrils  was 
savory  in  the  extreme,  and  he  consequently  regarded 
the  smoker  as  tendering  in  this  way,  the  deprecatory 
sacrifice,  precisely  as  the  savages  had  done  before 
him.  So  grateful,  indeed,  was  the  oblation  to  his 
taste,  that  often,  of  the  long  summer  evening,  would 
he  gather  himself  into  a  bunch,  in  the  thick  branches 
of  the  high  tree  overhanging  the  log-house,  to  inhale 
the  reeking  fumes  that  were  sent  up  by  the  hali 
oblivious  woodman,  as  he  lay  reposing  under  its 
grateful  shadow. 

VIII. 

There  was  one  of  these  little  cottages,  which,  for 
this  very  reason,  Logoochie  found  great  delight  in 
visiting.  It  was  tenanted  by  a  sturdy  old  farmer, 
named  Jones,  and  situated  on  the  skirts  of  St.  Mary's 
village,  about  three  miles  from  the  Branch  of  Sweet 
Water,  the  favorite  haunt  of  Logoochie.  Jones  had 
a  small  family  —  consisting,  besides  himself,  of  his 
wife,  his  sister — a  lady  of  certain  age,  and  monstrous 
demure  —  and  a  daughter,  Mary  Jones,  as  sweet  a 
May-flower,  as  the  eye  of  a  good  taste  would  ever 
wish  to  dwell  upon.  She  was  young — only  sixteen, 
and  had  not  yet  earned  a  single  one  of  the  thousand 
arts,  which,  in  making  a  fine  coquette,  spoil  usually 
a  fine  woman.  She  thought  purely,  and  freely  siiiu 
all  that  she  thought.      Her  old  father  loved  her — lu  r 


i8  LOGOOCIIIE 


mother  loved  her,  and  her  aunt,  she  loved    ler  too, 
and  proved  it,  by  doing  her  own,  and  the  scolding 
of  all  the  rest,  whenever  the  light-hearted  Mary  said 
more  in  her  eyes,  or  speech,  than  her  aunt's  conven- 
tional sense  of  propriety  deemed  absolutely  necessary 
to  be  said.     This  family,  Logoochie  rather  loved,— 
whether  it  was  because  farmer  Jones  did  more  smok 
ing  than  any  of  the  neighbours,  or  his  sister  more 
scolding,  or  his  wife  more  sleeping,  or  his  daughter 
more  loving,  we  say  not,  but  such  certainly  was  the 
fact.     Mary  Jones  had  learned  this  latter  art,  if  none 
other.     A  tall  and    graceful  lad    in   the   settlement, 
named  Johnson,  had  found  favour  in  her  sight,  and 
she  in  his ;  and  it  Avas  not  long  before  they  made  the 
nmtual  discovery.     He  was  a  fine  youth,  and  quite 
worthy  of  "the  maiden;  but 'then  he  was  of  an  inquir- 
ing, roving  temper,  and  though  not   yet   arrived  at 
manhood,    frequently   indulged     in     rambles,    rather 
startling,  even  to  a  people  whose  habit  in  that  resp(.'ct 
is  somewhat  proverbial.     He  had  gone  in  his  wander- 
ings even  into  the  heart  of  the  Okephanokee  Swamp, 
and  strange  were  the  wonders,  and  wild  the  stories, 
which    he   gave   of  that  region  of   Indian  fable — a 
region,  about  which  they  have  as  many  and  ns  beau- 
tiful traditions,  as  any  people  can  furnish  from  the 
store  house  of  its  primitive  romance.     This  disposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  Ned  Johnson,  though  productive  oJ 
much  disquiet  to  his  friends  and  flimily.  tliey  hoped        C 
to  overcome  or  restrain,  by  the  proposed  union  with 
Mary  Jones — a  connexion   seemingly  acceptable   to 
all  parties.     Mary,  like  niost  other  good  young  ladies, 


LOGOOCHIK.  49 

had  no  doubt,  indeed,  of  her  power  to  control  her 
lover  in  his  wanderings,  when  once  they  were  man 
and  wife ;  and  he,  like  most  good  young  gentlemen 
in  like  cases,  did  not  scruple  to  swear  a  thousand 
times,  that  her  love  would  be  as  a  chain  about  his 
feet,  too  potent  to  suffer  him  the  slightest  indulgence 
of  his  rambling  desires. 

IX. 

So  things  stood,  when,  one  day,  what  should  ap- 
pear in  the  Port  of  St.  Mary's  —  the  Pioneer  of  the 
Line — but  a  vessel — a  schooner — a  brightly  painted, 
sharp,  cunning  looking  craft,  all  the  way  from  the 
eastern  waters,  and  commanded  by  one  of  that  dar- 
ing tribe  of  Yankees,  which  will  one  day  control  the 
commercial  world.  Never  had  such  a  craft  sho\\Ti 
its  face  in  those  waters,  and  great  was  the  excitement 
in  consequence.  The  people  turned  out,  en  masse, — 
men,  women,  and  children, — all  gathered  upon  the 
sands  at  the  point  to  which  she  was  approaching,  and 
while  many  stood  dumb  with  mixed  feelings  of  won- 
der and  consternation,  others,  more  bold  and  elastic, 
shouted  with  delight.  Ned  Johnson  led  this  latter 
class,  and  almost  rushed  into  the  waters  to  meet  the 
new  comer,  clapping  his  hands  and  screaming  like 
mad.  Logoochie  himself,  from  the  close  hugging 
branches  of  a  neighbouring  tree,  looked  down,  and 
wondered  and  trembled  as  he  beheld  the  fast  rushing 
progress  toward  hm  of  Avhat  might  be  a  new  and 
more  potent  God.  Then,  when  her  little  cannon, 
ostentatiously  large  for  the  necessity,  belched  forth  its 

5 


60  LOGOOCHIE. 

thunder's  from  her  side,  the  joy  and    le  terrror  was 
universal.     The  rude  divinity  of  the  red  men  leaped 
down    headlong   from   his    place    of  eminence,    and 
bounded  on  without  stopping,  until  removed  i'rom  the 
sight  and  the  shouting,  in  the  thick  recesses  of  the 
neighbouring  wood  ;  \\'hile  the  children  of  the  squat- 
ters taking  to  their  heels,  went  bawling  and  squalling 
back  to  the  village,  never  thinking  for  a  moment  to 
reach  it  alive.     The  schooner  cast  her  anchor,  and 
her   captain    came    to    land.     Columbus    looked  not 
more  imposing,  leaping  first  to  the  virgin  soil  of  the 
New  World,  than  our  worthy  down-easter,  commencing, 
for  the  first  time,  a  successful  trade  in  onions,  potatoes, 
codfish,  and  crab-cider,  with  the  delighted  Georgians 
of  our  little  village.     All  parties  were  overjoyed,  and 
none  more  so  than  our  young  lovef.  Master  Edward 
Johnson.     He  drank  in  Avith  willing  ears  and  a  still 
thirsting  appetite,  the    narrative  which  the   Yankee 
captain  gave  the  villagers  of  his  voyage.     His  long 
yarn,  be  sure,  was  stutfed  with  wonders.     The  new' 
comer  soon  saw  from  Johnson's  looks  how  greatly  he 
had  won  the  respect  and  consideration  of  tlie  youthful 
wanderer,  and,  accordingly,  addressed  some  of  his  more 
spirited  and  romantic  adventures  purposely  to  him. 
Poor  Mary  Jones  beheld,  with  dreadful  anticipations, 
the  voracious  delight  which  sparkled  in  the  eyes  of 
Ned  as  he  listened  to  the  marvellous  narrative,  and 
had  the  thing  been   at  a  I   possible   or    proper,  sbe 
would    have  insisted,  for   t  le   better   control    of  the 
erratic  boy,  that  old  Parson  Collins  should  at  once  do 
his  duty,  and  give  her  Icga.  authority  to  say  to  her 


LOGOOCHIE.'  CI 

lover — "  obey,  my  dear, — stay  at  home,  or,''  etc.  She 
went  back  to  the  village  in  great  tribulation,  and  Ned 
— he  stayed  behind  with  Captain  Nicodemus  Doo- 
little,  of  the  "Smashing  Nancy." 

X. 

Now  Nicodemus,  or,  as  they  familiarly  called  him, 
"  Old  Nick,"  was  a  AvonderfuUy  'cute  personage ;  and 
as  he  was  rather  slack  of  hands  —  was  not  much  of  a 
penman  or  grammarian,  and  felt  that  in  his  new  trade 
he  should  need  greatly  the  assistance  of  one  to  whom 
the  awful  school  mystery  of  fractions  and  the  rule  of 
three  had,  by  a  kind  fortune,  been  developed  duly  —  he 
regarded  the  impression  which  he  had  obviously 
made  upon  the  mind  of  Ned  Johnson,  as  promising  to 
neutralize,  if  he  could  secure  him,  some  few  of  his 
own  deficiencies.  He  addressed  himself,  therefore, 
particularly  to  this  end,  and  was  successful.  The 
head  of  the  youth  was.  now  filled  with  the  wonders  of 
the  sea ;  and  after  a  day  or  two  of  talk,  in  which  the 
captain  sold  off  his  notions,  he  came  point  blank  to 
the  subject  in  the  little  cabin  of  the  schooner.  The 
captain  sat  over  against  him,  with  many  papers 
before  him;  some  were  grievous  mysteries;  one  in 
particular,  which  called  for  the  summing,  up,  consecu- 
tively, of  numerous  items  of  sale,  in  which  the  cross 
currency  of  the  different  states  worked  no  small 
increase  of  difficulty  in  his  already  bewildered  brain. 
To  reconcile  the  York  shilling,  the  Pennsylvania 
levy,  the  Georgia  thrij),  the  Carolina  fovrpence,  the 
Ijouisiana  hit  and  pickaiune,  was  a  task  rather  beyond 


92  LOGOOCHIK. 

thf  ordinary  powers  of  Captain  Doolittle.  H"  cross 
ed  his  rio-ht  le^r  over  his  left,  but  still  he  faileu  to 
prove  his  sum.  He  rever-^^-^d  the  movement,  and  the 
left  leg  now  lay  problematically  over  the  right.  The 
product  was  very  hard  to  find.  He  took  a  sup  of 
cider  and  then  he  thought  things  began  to  look  a 
little  .ilearer  ;  but  a  moment  after  all  was  cloud  again, 
and  at  length  the  figures  absolutely  seemed  to  run 
into  one  another.  He  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
slapped  his  hand  down,  at  length,  with  such  empha- 
sis, upon  the  table,  as  to  startle  the  poor  youth,  who, 
all  the  while,  had  been  dreaming  of  plunging  and 
wriggling  dolphins,  seen  in  all  their  gold  and  glitter, 
three  feet  or  less  in  the  waters  below  the  advancing 
prow  of  the  ship.  The  start  which  Johnson  made,  at 
once  showed  the  best  mode  to  the  captain  of  extrica- 
tion from  his  difficulty. 

"  There — there,  my  dear  boy,  —  take  some  cider- 
only  a  little  —  do  you  good — best  thing  in  the  world 
—  There, — and  now  do  run  up  these  figures,  and  see 
how  Ave  agree." 

Ned  was  a  clever  lad,  and  used  to  stand  head  of  Iii.=- 
class.  He  unravelled  the  mystery  in  little  time- 
reconciled  the  cross-currency  of  the  several  sovereign 
states,  and  was  rewarded  by  his  patron  with  a  hearty 
slap  upon  the  shoulder,  and  another  cup  of  cider. 
It  vv'ns  not  difficult  after  tliis  to  agree,  and  half  fear- 
ing that  all  the  v.'hile  he  was  not  doing  right  by 
Mary  Jones,  bedashed  his  signature,  in  a  much  worse 
hand  than  he  was  accustomed  to  write,  upon  a  printed 
paper  which  Doolittle  thrust  to  him  acro.ss  the  table 


LOGOOCHIE.  53 

"  And  now,  my  dear  boy,"  said  ;he  captain,  "  you 
are  my  secretary,  and  shall  have  best  berth,  and 
place  along  with  myself,  in  the  '  Smashing  Nancy.'  " 

XL 

The  bargain  had  scarcely  been   struck,  and  the 
terms  well  adjusted  with  the  Yankee  captain,  before 
Ned  Johnson  began  to  question  the  propriety  of  what 
he  had  done.     He  was  not  so  sure  that  he  had  not 
been  hasty,  and  felt  that  the  pain  his  departure  would 
inflict  upon  Mary  Jones,  would  certainly  be  as  great 
in  degree,  as  the  pleasure  which  his  future  adventures 
must  brine:  to  himself     Still,  when  he  looked  forward 
to  those  adventures,  and  remembered  the  thousand 
fine  stories  of  Captain   Doolittle,   his  dreams  came 
back,  and  witli  them  came  a  due  forgetfulness  of  the 
hum-drum  happiness  of  domestic  life.     The  life  in 
ihe  woods,  indeed — as  if  there  was  life,  strictly  speak- 
ing, in  the  eternal  monotony  of  the  pine  forests,  and 
the  drowsy  hum  they  keep  up  so  ceaselessly.     Wood- 
chopping,  too,  was  his  aversion,  and  when  he  reflected 
upon  the  acknowledged  superiority  of  his  own  over 
all  the  minds  about  him,  he  felt  that  his  destiny  called 
upon    him  for  better   things,   and    a   more    elevated 
employment.     He  gradually  began  to  think  of  Mary 
Jones,  as  of  one  of  those  influences  which  had  sub- 
tracted   somewhat   from    the   nature   and   legitimate 
exercises   of  his    own    genius ;    and    whose    claims, 
therefore,  if  acknowledged  by  him,  as  she  required, 
must   only    be   acknowledged   at   the    expense    and 
sacrifice   of  the    higher    pursuits   and    purposes    for 

6* 


M  LOGOOCHIE 

which  the  discriminating  Providence  had  designed 
him.  The  youth's  head  was  fairly  turned  by  his 
ambitious  yearnings,  and  it  was  strange  how  sub- 
timely  metaphysical  his  musings  now  made  him. 
He  began  to  analyze  closely  the  question,  since  made 
a  standing  one  among  the  phrenologists,  as  to  how 
far  particular  heads  were  intended  for  particulai 
pursuits.  General  principles  were  soon  applied  to 
special  developments  in  his  own  case,  and  he  came 
to  the  conclusion,  just  as  he  placed  his  feet  upon  the 
threshold  of  Father  Jones's  cottage,  that  he  should 
be  contending  with  the  ahu  of  fate,  and  the  original 
design  of  the  Deity  in  his  o\%.i  creation,  if  he  did  not 
go    with    Captain     Nicodemus     Doolittle,    of    the 


Smashing  Nancy." 


XII. 


"  Ahem  !  Mary — "  said  Ned,  finding  the  little  girl 
conveniently  alone,  half  sorrowful,  and  turning  the 
whizzing  spinning  wheel. 

"Ahem,  Mary — ahem — "  and  as  he  brought  forth 
the  not  very  intelligible  introduction,  his  eye  had  in 
it  a  vague  indeterminateness  that  looked  like  confu- 
sion, though,  truth  to  speak,  his  head  was  high  and 
confident  enough. 

"Well,  Ned—" 

"Ahem!  ah,  Mary,  what  did  you  think  of  ihe 
beautiful  vessel.     Was  n't  she  fine,  eh?" 

"Very — very  fine,  Ned,  though  she  was  so  large, 
and,  when  the  great  gun  was  fired,  my  heart  beat  sc 
—  I  Mas  frightened,  Ned  —  that  I  was.'^ 


I.OGOOCHIE.  6b 

",  Frighte  led^ — why  what  frightened  you,  Mary,'' 
exclaimed  Ned  proudly — "that  was  grand,  and  as 
soon  as  we  get  to  sea,  I  shall' shoot  it  off  myself.'' 

"  Get  to  sea — why  Ned — get  to  sea.  Oh,  dear, 
why — what  do  you  mean?"  and  the  bewildered  girl, 
half  conscious  only,  yet  doubting  her  senses,  now  left 
ihe  wheel,  and  came  toward  the  contracted  secretary 
of  Captain  Doolittle. 

"  Yes,  get  to  sea,  Mary^  What !  don't  y^ou  know 
I'm  going  with  the  captain  clear  away  to  New- 
York  ?" 

Now,  how  should  she  know,  poor  girl  ?  He  knew 
that  she  was  ignorant,  but  as  he  did  not  feel  satisfied 
of  the  propriety  of  what  he  had  done,  his  phraseology 
had  acsumed  a  somewhat  indirect  and  distorted 
complexion. 

"  You  going  with  the  Yankee,  Ned — you  don't 
say." 

"  Yes,  but  I  do — and  what  if  he  is  a  Yankee,  and 
sells  notions  —  I'm  sure,  there's  no  harm  in  that; 
he's  a  main  smart  fellow,  Mary,  and  such  wonderful 
things  as  he  has  seen,  it  would  make  your  hair  stand 
on  end  to  hear  him.  I'll  see  them  too,  Mary,  and 
then  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Ned, — you're  only  joking  now — you  don't 
mean  it,  Ned — you  only  say  so  to  tease  me — Is'nt  it 
so,  Ned — say  it  is  —  say  yes,  dear  Ned,  only  say 
yes." 

And  the  poor  girl  caught  his  arm,  with  all  the 
confidinq-  warmth  of  an  innocent  heart,  and  as  the- 
tears  gathered  slowly,  into  big  drops,  in  her  eyes,  and 


66  LOGOOCHIE. 

they  were  turned  appeal!  .igly  up  to  his,  the  heart  of 
the  wanderer  smote  him  for  the  pain  it  had  inflictea 
upon  one  so  gentle.  ■  In  that  moment,  he  felt  that  he 
would  have  given  the  world  to  get  off  from  his 
bargain  with  the  captain ,  but  this  mood  lasted  not 
long.  His  active  imagination  provoking  a  curious 
thirst  after  the  unknown ;  and  his  pride,  which  sug- 
gested the  weakness  of  a  vacillating  purpose,  all 
turned  and  stimulated  him  to  resist  and  refuse  the 
prayer  of  the  conciliating  affection,  then  beginning 
to  act  within  him  in  rebuke.  Speaking  through 
his  teeth,  as  if  he  dreaded  that  he  should  want  firm- 
ness, he  resolutely  reiterated  what  he  had  said ;  and, 
while  the  sad  girl  listened,  silently,  as  one  thunder 
struck,  he  went  on  to  give  a  glowing  description  of 
the  wonderful  discoveries  in  store  for  Rim  during  the 
proposed  voyage.  Mary  sunk  back  upon  her  stool, 
and  the  spinning  wheel  went  faster  than  ever ;  but 
never  in  her  life  had  she  broken  so  many  tissues.  He 
did  his  best  at  consolation,  but  the  true  hearted  girl, 
though  she  did  not  the  less  suffer  as  he  pleaded,  at  least 
forbore  all  complaint.  The  thing  seemed  irrevocable, 
and  so  she  resigned  herself,  like  a  true  woman,  to  the 
imjicrious  necessity.  Ned,  after  a  while,  adjusted 
his  plaited  straw  to  his  cranium,  and  sallied  forthwith 
a  due  importance  in  his  strut,  but  with  a  swelling 
something  at  his  heart,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to 
quiet. 


LOGOOCHIE'  5/ 

XIII. 

And  what  oi  poor  Mary — the  disconsolate,  the 
deserted  and  denied  of  love.  She  said  nothmg,  ate 
her  dinner  in  silence,  and  then  putting  on  her  bonnet, 
prepared  to  sally  forth  in  a  solitary  ramble. 

"  What  ails  it,  child,"  said  old  Jones,  with  a  rough 
tenderness  of  manner. 

"Where  going,  baby?"  asked  her  mother,  half 
asleep. 

"  Out  again,  Mary  Jones  —  out  again,"  vociferously 
shouted  the  antique  aunt,  who  did  all  the  family 
scolding. 

The  little  girl  answered  them  all  meekly,  with- 
out the  slightest  show  of  impatience,  and  proceeded 
on  her  walk. 

The  "  Branch  of  Sweet  Water,"  now  knoAvn  by 
this  name  to  all  the  villagers  of  St.  Mary's,  was  then, 
as  it  was  supposed  to  be  his  favourite  place  of  abode, 
commonly  styled,  "  The  Branch  of  Logoochie." 
The  Indians  —  such  stragglers  as  either  lingered 
behind  their  tribes,  or  occasionally  visited  the  old 
scenes  of  their  home, — had  made  the  white  settlers 
somewhat  acquainted  with  the  character  and  the 
supposed  presence  of  that  playful  God,  in  the  region 
thus  assigned  him;  and  though  not  altogether  assur- 
ed of  the  idleness  of  the  superstition,  the  young  and 
innocent  Mary  Jones  had  no  apprehensions  of  his 
power.  She,  indeed,  had  no  reason  for  fear,  for  Lo- 
goochie had  set  her  down,  long  before,  as  one  of  his 
favorites.  He  had  done  her  many  little  services,  ol 
which  she  was  unaware,  nor  was  she  the  only  mem 


68  LOGOOCHIE. 

ber  of  her  family  indebted  to  his  ministering  good 
will.  He  loved  them  all — all  but  the  scold,  and  many 
of  the  annoyances  to  which  the  old  maid  was  subject, 
arose  from  this  antipathy  of  Logoochie.  But  to 
return. 

It  was  in  great  tribulation  that  Mary  set  out  for  her 
usual  ramble  along  the  banks  of  the  "  Sweet  Water." 
Heretofore  most  of  her  walks  in  that  quarter  had 
been  made  in  company  with  her  lover.  Here, 
perched  in  some  sheltering  oak,  or  safely  doubled  up 
behind  some  swollen  pine,  the  playful  Logoochie, 
himself  unseen,  a  thousand  times  looked  upon  the 
two  lovers,  as,  with  linked  arms,  and  spirits  maintain- 
mg,  as  it  appeared,  a  perfect  unison,  they  Avalked  in 
the  shade  durinc"  the  summer  afternoon.  Tliouffh 
sportive  and  .mischievous,  such  sights *were  pleasant 
to  one  who  dwelt  alone  ;  and  there  were  many 
occasions,  when,  their  love  first  ripening  into  expres- 
sion, he  would  divert  from  their  path,  by  some  little 
adroit  art  or  management  of  his  own,  the  obtrusive 
and  unsympathising  woodman,  who  might  otherwise 
have  spoiled  the  sport  which  he  could  not  be  per- 
mitted to  share.  Under  his  unknown  sanction  and  soi- 
vice,  therefore,  the  youthful  pair  had  found  love  a  rap- 
ture, until,  at  length,  poor  Mary  had  learned  to  reoard 
it  as  a  necessary  too.  She  knew  the  necessity  from 
the  privation,  as  she  now  rambled  alone ;  her  wan- 
dering lover  meanwhile  improving  his  knowledge  by 
some  additional  chit-chat,  on  matters  and  things  in 
general,  with  the  captain,  with  whom  he  had  that  day 
dined  heartily  on  codfish  and  potatoes,  a  new  dish  to 


LOGOOCHIE.    •  63 

young  Johnson,  which  gave  him  an  ad.litional  idea  of 
the  vast  resources  of  the  sea. 

XIV. 

Mary  Jones  at  length  trod  the  hanks  of  the  Sweet 
^Vater,  and  footing  it  along  the  old  pathway  to  where 
the  rivulet  narrowed,  she  stood  under  the  gigantic 
tree  which  threw  its  shelterinof  and  concealing-  arms 
completely  across  the  stream.  With  an  old  habit, 
rather  than  a  desire  for  its  refreshment,  she  took  the 
gourd  from  the  limb  whence  it  depended,  pro  bono 
publico,  over  the  water,  and  scooping  up  a  draught  of 
the  innocent  beverage,  she  proceeded  to  drink,  when, 
just  as  she  carried  the  vessel  to  her  lips,  a  deep 
moan  assailed  her  ears,  as  from  one  in  pain,  and  at  a 
little  distance.  She  looked  up,  and  the  moan  was 
repeated,  and  with  increased  fervency.  She  saw 
nothing,  however,  and  somewhat  startled,  was  about 
to  turn  quickly  on  her  way  homeward,  when  a  third 
and  more  disunct  repetition  of  the  moan,  appealed  so 
strongly  to  her  natural  sense  of  duty,  that  she  could 
stand  it  no  longer;  and  with  the  noblest  of  all  kinds 
of  courage,  for  such  is  the  courage  of  humanity,  she 
hastily  tripped  over  the  log  which  ran  across  the 
stream,  and  proceeded  in  the  direction  from  whence 
the  sounds  had  issued.  A  few  paces  brought  her  in 
sight  of  the  sufferer,  who  was  no  other  than  our  soli- 
tary acquaintance,  Logoochie.  He  lay  upon  the 
grass,  doubled  now  into  a  knot,  and  now  stretching 
and  writhing  himself  about  in  agony.  His  whole  ap 
peauirce  indicated  suffering,  and  there  was  nothing 


&'.  LOGOCCHIE. 

equivocal  in  the  expiession  of  his  moanings.  The 
astonishment,  not  to  say  fright,  of  the  little  cottage 
maiden,  may  readily  be  conjectured.  She  saw,  for 
the  first  time,  the  hideous  and  uncouth  outline  of 
his  person  —  the  ludicrous  combination  of  feature  in 
his  face.  She  had  heard  of  Logoochie,  vaguely; 
and  without  giving  much,  if  any,  credence  to  the 
mysterious  tales  related  by  the  credulous  -woodman, 
returning  home  at  evening,  of  his  encounter  in  the 
forest  with  its  pine-bodied  divinity;  —  and  now,  as 
she  herself  looked  down  upon  the  suflering  and 
moaning  monster,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  whether 
curiosit}^  or  fear  was  the  most  active  principle  in  her 
bosom.  He  saw  her  approach,  and  he  half  moved 
to  rise  and  fly;  but  a  sudden  pang,  as  it  seemed, 
brought  him  back  to  a  due  sense  of  the  evil  from" 
which  he  was  sufTcring,  and,  looking  towards  the 
maiden  with  a  mingled  expression  of  good  humor 
and  pain  in  his  countenance,  he  seemed  to  implore 
her  assistance.  The  poor  girl  did  not  exactly  know 
what  to  do,  or  what  to  conjecture.  What  sort  of 
monster  was  it  before  her.  What  queer,  distorted, 
uncouth  limbs — what  eyes,  that  twinkled  and  danced 
into  one  another  —  and  what  a  mouth.  She  was  stu 
pified  for  a  moment,  until  he  spoke,  and,  stranger  still, 
in  a  language  that  she  understood.  And  what  a 
musical  voice,  —  how  sweetly  did  the  words  roll 
forth,  and  how  soothingly,  yet  earnestly,  did  they 
strike  upon  her  ear.  Language  is  indeed  a  God, 
and  powerful  before  all  the  rest.  His  words  told  her 
all  his  misfortunes,  and  the  tones  were  all-sufficient 


LOG  JOCHIE.  '  61 

to  inspire  confidence  in  one  even  more  suspicious 
than  our  innocent  cottager.  Besides,  humanity  was 
a  principle  in  her  heart,  while  fear  was  only  an  emo- 
tion, and  she  did  not  scruple,  where  the  two  conflict- 
ed, after  the  pause  for  reflection  of  a  moment,  to 
determine  in  favour  of  the  former.  She  approached 
Logoochie  —  she  approached  him,  firmly  determined 
in  her  purpose,  but  trembling  all  the  while.  As  she 
drew  nigh,  the  gentle  monster  stretched  himself  out 
at  length,  patiently  ext3nding  one  foot  towards  her, 
and  raising  it  in  such  a  manner  as'  to  indicate  the 
place  which  afiiicted  him.  She  could  scarce  forbear 
laughing,  when  she  looked  closely  upon  the  strange 
feet.  They  seemed  covered  with  bark,  like  that  of 
the  small  leafed  pine  tree ;  but  as  she  stooped,  to  her 
great  surprise,  the  coating  of  his  sole,  flew  wide  as  if 
upon  a  hinge,  showing  below  it  a  skin  as  soft,  and 
white,  and  tender,  seemingly,  as  her  own.  There,  in 
the  centre  of  the  hollow,  lay  the  cause  of  his  sufl^er- 
ing.  A  poisonous  thorn  had  penetrated,  almost  to 
the  head,  as  he  had  suddenly  leaped  from  the  tree, 
the  day  before,  upon  the  gun  being  fired  from  the 
"  Smashing  Nancy."  The  spot  around  it  was  greatly 
inflamed,  and  Logoochie,  since  the  accident,  had 
vainly  striven,  in  every  possible  way,  to  rid  himself 
of  the  intruder.  His  short,  inflexible  arms,  had  failed 
so  to  reach  it  as  to  make  his  fingers  available ;  and 
then,  having  claws  rather  than  nails,  he  could 
scarce  have  done  any  thing  for  his  own  reliel,  even 
could  they  have  reached  it.  He  now  felt  the  evil  of 
his  isolation,  and  the  danger  of  his  seclusion  from 

6 


83  LOGOOC31E. 

nis  brother  divinities.  His  case  was  one,  indeed,  of 
severe  bachelorism;  a*^.'.,  doubtless,  had  his  condhion 
been  less  than  that  of  a  deity,  the  approach  of  Mary 
Jones  to  his  aid,  at  such  a  moment,  would  have  pro- 
duced a  dreaded  revolution  in  his  domestic  economy. 
Still  trembling,  the  maiden  bent  herself  down  to  the 
task,  and  with  a  fine  courage,  that  did  not  allow  his 
uncouth  limbs  to  scare,  or  his  wild  and  monstrous 
features  to  deter,  she  applied  her  own  small  fingers  to 
the  foot,  and  carefully  grappling  the  head  of  the  wound- 
ing thorn  with  her  nails,  with  a  successful  effort,  she 
drew  it  forth  and  rid  him  of  his  encumbrance.  The 
wood-god  leaped  to  his  feet,  threw  a  dozen  antics  in 
the  air,  to  the  great  terror  of  Mary,  then  running  a 
little  way  into  the  forest,  soon  returned  with  a  hand- 
ful of  fresh  .leaves,  which  he  bruise^j  between  his 
fingers,  and  applied  to  the  irritated  and  wounded  foot. 
He  was  well  in  a  moment  after,  and  pointing  the 
astonished  Mary  to  the  bush  from  which  he  had  taken 
the  anointing  leaves,  thus  made  her  acquainted  with 
one  item  in  the  history  of  Indian  pharmacy. 

XV. 

"The  daughter  of  the  white  clay  —  she  has  come 
to  Logoochie,  —  to  Logoochie  when  he  was  suffering. 

•'  She  is  a  good  daughter  to  ^jogoochie,  and  the 
green  spirits  who  dwell  in  the  foiests,  they  love,  and 
will  honor  her. 

"  They  will  throw  do^\Ti  the  leaves  before  her,  they 
"« :\\  spread  the  branches  above  her,  they  will  hum  a 


LOG  ^OC  HIE.'  68 

sweet  song  m  the  tree  !op,  when  she  walks  under- 
neath it. 

"  They  wiJl  watch  beside  her,  as  she  sleeps  in  the 
shade,  in  the  warm  sun  of  the  noon-day,  —  they  will 
keep  the  flat  viper,  and  the  war  rattle,  away  from  her 
ear. 

"  They  will  do  this  to  honor  Logoochie,  for  they 
know  Logoochie,  and  he  loves  the  pale  daughter. 
She  came  to  him  in  his  suffering. 

"  She  drew  the  poison  thorn  from  his  foot  —  she 
fled  not  away  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Speak,  —  let  Logoochie  hear  —  there  is  sorrow 
in  the  face  of  the  pale  daughter.  Logoochie  would 
know  it  and  serve  her,  for  she  is  sweet  in  the  eye  of 
Logoochie." 

XVI. 

Thus  said,  or  rather  sung,  the  uncouth  god,  to 
Mary,  ad,  after  the  first  emotions  of  his  own  joy  were 
over,  he  beheld  the  expression  of  melancholy  in  her 
countenance.  Somehow,  there  was  something  so 
fatherly,  so  gentle,  and  withal,  so  melodious,  in  his 
language,  that  she  soon  unbosomed  herself  to  him, 
telling  him  freely  and  in  the  utmost  confidence,  though 
without  any  hope  of  relief  at  his  hands,  the  history 
of  her  lover,  and  the  new  project  for  departure  which 
he  had  now  got  in  his  head.  She  was  surprised,  and 
pleased,  when  she  saw  that  Logoochie  smiled  at  the 
narrative.  She  was  not  certain,  yet  she  had  a  vague 
hope,  that  he  could  do  something  for  her  relief;  and 
her  conjecture  was  not  in  vain,     He  spoke  —  "  Wh> 


M  L03OOCHIE. 

should  the  grief  be  in  the  heart  and  the  cloud  on  the 
face  of  the  maiden?  Is  not  Logoochie  to  help  her? 
He  stands  >eside  her  to  help.  Look,  daugiiter  of  the 
pale  cla}'  —  look!  There  is  a  power  in  the  leaf  that 
shall  serve  thee  at  the  bidding  of  Logoochie; — the 
bough  and  the  branch  have  a  power  for  thy  good, 
when  Logoochie  commands ;  and  the  little  red-berry 
which  I  now  pluck  from  the  vine  hanging  over  thee, 
it  is  strong  with  a  spirit  which  is  good  in  thy  work, 
when  Logoochie  has  said  in  thy  service.  Lo,  I  speak 
to  the  leaf,  and  to  the  bough,  and  to  the  berry.  They 
shall  speak  to  the  water,  and  one  draught  from  the 
branch  of  Logoochie,  shall  put  chains  on  the  heart 
of  the  youth  who  would  go  forth  with  the  stranger." 

As  he  spoke,  he  gathered  the  leaf,  broke  a  bough 
from  an  overhanging  tree,  and,  with  ^a  red  berry, 
pulled  from  a  neighboring  vine,  approached  the 
Branch  of  Sweet  Water,  and  turning  to  the  west, 
muttered  a  wild  spell  of  Indian  power,  then  threw 
the  tributes  into  the  rivulet.  The  smootli  surface  ol 
the  stream  was  in  an  instant  ruffled  —  the  offerings 
were  whirled  suddenly  around  —  the  M'aters  broke, 
boiled,  bubbled  and  parted,  and,  in  another  moment, 
the  bough,  the  berry,  and  the  leaf,  had  disappeared 
from  their  sight. 

XVII. 

Mary  Jones  was  not  a  little  frightened  by  these 
exhibitions,  but  she  was  a  girl  of  courage,  and  hrwing 
once  got  over  the  dread  and  the  novelty  of  contact 
wi«h  a  form  sr  monstrous  as  that  of  Logoochie,  th<* 


LOGOOCIIIE.  61 

after  efToYt  was  not  so  great.  She  witnessed  the 
incantations  of  the  demon  without  a  word,  and  when 
they  were  over,  she  simply  listened  to  his  farther 
directions,  half  stupified  with  what  she  had  seen,  and 
not  knowing  how  much  of  it  to  believe.  He  bade 
her  bring  her  lover,  as  had  been  the  custom  with 
ihein  hitherto,  to  the  branch,  and  persuade  him  to 
drink  of  its  waters.  When  she  inquired  into  its 
effect,  which,  at  length,  with  much  effort  she  ventured 
to  do,  he  bade  her  be  satisfied,  and  all  would  go  right. 
Then,  wita  a  word,  which  was  like  so  much  music  — 
a  word  she  did  not  understand,  but  which  sounded  like 
a  parting  acknowledgment,  —  he  bounded  away  into 
the  woods,  and,  a  moment  after,  was  completely 
hidden  from  her  sight. 

XVIIL 

Poor  Mary,  not  yet  relieved  from  her  surprise,  was 
still  sufficiently  aroused  and  excited  to  believe  there 
was  something  in  it ;  and  as  she  moved  off  on  her 
way  home,  how  full  of  anticipation  was  her  thoughts — 
pleasant  anticipation  in  which  her  heart  took  active 
interest,  and  warmed,  at  length,  into  a  strong  and 
earnest  hope.  She  scarcely  gave  herself  time  to  get 
home,  and  never  did  the  distance  between  Sweet 
Water  Branch  and  the  cottage  of  her  father  appear 
so  extravagantly  great.  She  reached  it,  however,  at 
last;  and  there,  to  her  great  joy,  sat  her  lover,  along- 
side the  old  man.  and  givinsf  him  a  sflowing  account, 
such  as  he  had  receivsd  from  the  Yankee  Captain,  of 
the  wonders  to  be  met  with  in  his  coming  voyage. 


ee  LOO  oocHiE. 

Old  Jonei  listened  patiently,  puffing'  his  pipe,  all  the 
while,  and  saying  little,  but  now  and  then,  by  way  ol 
commentary,  uttering  an  ejaculatory  grunt,  most 
comrnonh    of  sneering  disapproval. 

"  Better  stay  at  ~  home,  a  d — d  sight,  Ned  Jolinson, 
and  follow  the  plough." 

Ned  Johnson,  however,  thought  diflerently,  and  it 
was  not  the  farmer's  grunts  or  growlings  that  was 
now  to  change  his  mind.     Fortunately  for  the  course 
of  true  love,  there  were  other  influences  at  work,  and 
the  impatience  of  Mary  Jones  to  try  them  was  evident, 
in  the  clumsiness  which  she  exhibited  while  passing 
the  knife  under  the  thin  crust  of  the  corn  hoe-cake 
that  night  for  supper,  and  laying  the  thick  masses  of 
fresh  butter,  between  the  smoking  and  savory-smell- 
ing sides,  as  she  turned  them  apart.    The  evening  wore, 
at  length,  and,  according  to  an  old  familiar  habit,  the 
lovers   Avalked    forth    to   the   haunted  and  fairy-like 
branch  of  Logoochie,  or  the  Sweet  Water.      It  was 
the  last  night  in  which  they  were  to  be  together,  prior 
to    his    departure    in    the    Smashing    Nancy.      That 
bouncing  vessel  and  her  dexterous  Captain  were  to 
depart  with  early  morning;  and  it  was  as  little  as 
Ned  Johnson  could  do,  lo  spend  that  night  with  hi.< 
sweetheart.     They   were   both   melancholy    enough, 
depend  upon  it.     She,   poor  girl,  hoping  much,  yet 
still  fearing  —  for  when  was  true  love  without  fear  — 
she  took  his  arm,  hung  fondly  upon   it,  and,  without 
a  Avord  between  them  for  a  long  while,  inclined  him, 
as  it  were  naturally,  in  the  required  direction.      Ned 
reaily  loved  h^r,  and   was  sorry  enough   when  thf 


LOGOOCHIE,  6} 

-A^ug-ht  came  to  him,  that  this  might  be  the  last  night 
of  their  association;  but  he  plucked  up  courage,  witli 
the  momentary  weakness,  and  though  he  spoke 
kindly,  yet  he  spoke  fearlessly,  and  with  a  sanguine 
temper,  upon  the  prospect  of  the  sea-adventure  before 
him.  Mary  said  little  —  her  heart  was  too  full  for 
speech,  but  she  looked  up  now  and  then  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw,  by  the  moonlight,  that  her  own  glistened 
as  with  tears.  He  turned  away  his  glance  as  he  saw 
it,  for  his  heart  smote  him  with  the  reproach  of  her 
desertion. 

XIX. 

They  came  at  length  to  the  charmed  streamlet,  the 
Branch  of  the  Sweet  Water,  to  this  day  known  for 
its  fascinations.  The  moon  rose  sweetly  above  it,  the 
trees  coming  out  in  her  soft  light,  and  the  scatterings 
of  her  thousand  beams  glancing  from  the  green  polish 
of  their  crowding  leaves.  The  breeze  that  rosealonof 
with  her  was  soft  and  wooing  as  herself;  while  the 
besprinkling  fleece  of  the  small  white  clouds,  cluster- 
ing along  the  sky,  and  flying  from  her  splendors, 
made  the  scene,  if  possible,  far  more  fairy-like  and 
imposing.  It  was  a  scene  for  love,  and  the  heart  ot 
Ned  Johnson  grew  more  softened  than  ever.  His 
desire  for  adventure  grew  modified ;  and  when  Mary 
bent  to  the  brooklet  and  scooped  up  the  water  for  him 
to  drink,  with  the  water-gourd  that  hung  from  tlie 
bough,  wantoning  in  the  breeze  that  loved  to  play 
over  the  pleasant  stream,  Ned  could  not  help  thinking 
she  never  looked  more  beautiful.     The  water  trickled 


18  I.OGOOCHIE 

from  the  gourd  as  she  handed  it  to  him,  falling  like 
droppings  of  he  moonshine  again  into  its  parent 
stream.  You  should  have  seen  her  eye  —  so  full  of 
hope  —  so  full  of  doubt — so  beautiiul  —  so  earnest, — 
as  he  took  the  vessel  from  her  hands.  For  a  moment 
he  hesitated,  and  then  how  her  heart  beat  and  her 
limbs  trembled.  But  he  drank  off  the  contents  at  a 
draught,  ana  gave  no  sign  of  emotion.  Yet  his 
emotions  were  strange  and  novel.  It  seemed  as  if  so 
much  ice  had  gone  through  his  veins  in  that  moment. 
He  said  nothing,  however,  and  dipping  up  a  gourd 
full  for  Mary,  he  hung  the  vessel  again  upon  the 
pendant  bough,  and  the  two  moved  away  from  the 
water — not,  however,  before  the  maiden  caught  a 
glimpse,  through  the  intervening  foliage,  of  those 
two  queer,  bright,  little  eyes  of  Logooehie,  with  a 
more  delightful  activity  than  ever,  dancing  gayly  into 
one. 

XX. 

But  the  spell  had  been  effectual,  and  a  new  nature 
filled  the  heart  of  him,  who  had  heretofore  sighed 
vaguely  for  the  unknown.  The  roving  mood  had 
entirely  departed ;  he  was  no  longer  a  wanderer  in 
spirit,  vexed  to  be  denied  A  soft  languor  overspread 
his  form  —  a  weakness  gathered  and  grew  about  his 
heart,  and  he  now  sighed  unconsciously.  How  soft, 
yel  hov  full  of  emphasis,  was  the  pressure  of  Mary's 
hand  iipon  his  arm  as  she  beard  that  sigh ;  and  liow 
forcibly  did  it  remind  the  youth  that  she  who  walked 
beside  him  was  his  own  —  his  own  forever.     With  tlie 


LftGOOCHIE.  .  69 

thought  came  a  sweet  perspective — a  long  vista  rose 
up  before  his  eyes,  crowded  with  images  of  repose  and 
plenty,  such  as  the  domestic  nature  likes  to  dream  of. 

"Oh,  Mary,  I  will  not  go  with  this  Captain  —  I 
will  not.  I  will  stay  at  home  with  you,  and  we  shall 
be  married." 

Thus  he  spoke,  as  the  crowding  thoughts,  such  as 
we  have  described,  came  up  before  his  fancy. 

"Will  you — shall  wt''-  Oh,  dear  Edward,  I  am 
so  happy." 

And  the  maiden  blessed  Logoochie,  as  she  uttered 
her  response  of  happy  feeling. 

"  I  will,  dear  —  but  I  must  hide  from  Doolittle.  I 
have  signed  papers  to  go  with  him,  and  he  will  be  so 
disappointed  —  I  must  hide  from  him." 

"  Why  must  you  hide,  Edward — he  cannot  compel 
you  to  go,  unless  you  please;  and  you  just  to  be 
married." 

Edward  thought  siie  insisted  somewhat  unnecessa- 
rily upon  the  latter  point,  but  he  replied  to  the  first. 

"I  am  afraid  he  can.  I  signed  papers  —  I  don't 
know  what  they  were,  for  I  was  rash  and  foolish  — • 
but  they  bound  me  to  go  with  him,  and  unless  I  keep 
out  of  the  way,  I  shall  have  to  go." 

"Oh,  dear — why,  Ned,  where  will  you  go — you 
must  hide  close,  —  I  would  not  have  him  find  you  for 
the  world." 

"  I  reckon  not.  As  to  the  hiding,  I  can  go  where 
all  St.  Mary's  can't  finu  me;  and  that's  in  Okepha- 
nokee." 


TO  LOGOOCHIE. 

•  Oh,  don't  go  so  far  —  it  is  so  dangerous,  for  some 
of  the  Seminoles  are  there  !" 

"  And  what  if  they  are  ?  —  I  don't  care  that  for  the 
Seminoles.  They  never  did  me  any  harm,  and  never 
\vi  1.  But,  I  shan't  go  quite  so  far.  Bull  swamp  is 
close  enough  for  me,  and  there  I  can  watch  the 
"Smashing  Nancy"  'till  she  gets  out  to  sea." 

XXI. 

Having  thus  determined,  it  was  not  long  before 
Ned  Johnson  made    himself  secure  in   his    place   of 
retreat,  while  Captain   Doolittle,  of  the    "Smashing 
Nancy,"  in  great  tribulation,  ransacked  the  village  of 
St.  Mary's  in  every  direction  for  his  articled  seaman, 
for  such  Ned  Johnson  had  indeed  become.      Doolittle 
deserved   to  .lose    him    for  the  trick  wbich,   in  this 
respect,  he  had  played  upon  the  boy.     His  search 
proved  fruitless,  and  he  was  compelled  to  sail  at  last. 
Ned,  from  the  top  of  a  high  tree  on  the  edge  of  Bull 
swamp,  watched  his  departure,  until  the  last  gleam  of 
the  white  sail   flitted  away  from  the  horizon;    then 
descending,  he  made  his  way  back  to  St.  Mary's,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  he  claimed  and  received  the 
hand  of  his  pretty  cottager  in  marriage.     Loo-oochie 
was  never  seen  in  the  neighbourhood  afler  this  event. 
His  accident  had  shown  him  the  necessity  of  keeping 
with   his  brethren,  for,   reasoning  from   all  nnaloo-v, 
gods  mu.st  he  social  animals  not  less  llinn  men.      But, 
in  d-'partinof,  he  forgot  lo  take  the  s;>ell  away  \\-hich 
he      \(\  put  upon  the  Sweet  Water  Branch;  and  to 
t^-      iy,  the  strangei,  visiting  St.  Mary's,  is  \varne(l 


.OGOOCHIE.    •  71 

not  to  drink  from  the  stream,  unless  he  proposes  to 
remain;  for  still,  as  in  the  case  of  Ned  Johnson,  it 
binds  the  feet  and  enfeebles  the  enterprise  of  him  who 
partakes  of  its  pleasant  waters. 


SONG. 

O !   why  do  ttiey  say  that  affection  is  vain, 

Brings  wo  while  it  lasts,  ana  '=!Oon  closes  in  pain ; 
That  changes  and  death  on  our  friendships  will  steal, 
That  'tis  folly  to  love,  and  but  sorrow  to  feel  ? 

ris  true  that  our  friendships  may  change  and  decay ; 
But  do  we  jor  that  cast  the  flowers  away  ? 
And  will  not  the  falsehood  of  many  a  loved  name, 
Make  dearer  the  few  who  are  ever  the  same? 

For  death,  ^vhich  they  say  puts  an  end  to  our  love, 
Sets  it  safe  from  all  change,  in  its  own  home  above' 
Then  cherish  affections,  for  happiness  given. 
For  changsless,  and  endless,  they  flourish  in  heaveu  1 

SiGNORINA, 


THE    YOUNG   MOTHER 


BY   GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 


Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy. 

WoRDSWOBTB. 


I. 

A  f  OTTNo  and  gentle  mother, 

She  bows  above  her  boy, 
And  a  tear  is  in  her  downcast  eye, 

But  'tis  the  tear  of  joy  — 
Of  one  whose  few  fair  summers 

On  golden  wings  have  sped, 
Like  childhood's  dreams  of  Paradise, 

Above  her  sainted  head. 
Loved,  ere  her  life's  flush  morning 

Had  kindled  into  day. 
And  worshipped,  as  she  wooed  the  flowcA 

That  bloomed  around  lior  way, 
By  one  whose  warm  afTections 

On  her  wondrous  beauty  hung, 
And  their  first  taintless  tribute  gave 

To  the  shrine  to  which  they  clung  f 


IT'GflE     YOQJW'a    RC(n)¥S]ES^ 


THE    YOUNG    MOTHER.  U 

11. 

A  young  and  gentle  mother  — 

Still  beautiful,  but  pale 
With  sleepless  but  unwearied  watch 

Alike  through  joy  and  wail. 
A  mother !  —  yet  believing 

Life's  duties  scarce  begun  — 
Whose  childl.o'jd  seemed  of  yesterdav, 

In  its  unciouued  sun; 
So  early  had  the  story 

Of  idol  Love  been  told  — 
So  early  had  her  virgin  heart 

Been  gathered  to  its  fold ! 

III. 
And  he  who  won  her  —  where  is  he. 

In  this  her  day  of  pride, 
When  every  hope  she  claimed  before 

By  this  grew  dim  and  died! 
So  priceless  was  the  treasure 

Her  throbbing  bosom  bore. 
So  centered  was  her  spirit  now 

On  one  she  could  adore  ! 
Where  is  he  !  —  Ah  !  her  vision 

Is  of  shadowy  ships  and  seas  — 
And /or  him  the  unuttered  prayer 

Is  poured  on  bended  knees. 
Each  day  in  thought  she  follows 

His  stormy  ocean  track, 
And  every  dreamy  midnight  still 

Her  pillow  brings  him  back. 


THE    vol   NO    M(JTilER. 

For  he  —  for  distant  regions 

Torn  early  from  her  side, — 
Had  parted,  with  his  heart  in  tears, 

From  that  outsobbing  bride. 

IV. 

Long  time  afar  he  lingered, 

And  oft  the  message  came 
Of  fadeless  love  —  and  of  cruel  fate 

The  tale  was  still  the  same. 
Years  fled  —  and  still  he  wandered  — 

In  one  long  dream  of  home, 
And  prattling  voices  round  its  hearth  — 

An  exile,  doomed  to  roam 

V. 
At  length  her  leaping,  spirit 

Its  pramisc'd  bliss  had  found, 
And  she  heard  its  pulses  quick  and  louii 

Beat  to  the  welcome  sound. 
He  on  the  bounding  waters 

Had  cast  himself  once  more. 
To  greet  that  home,  and  hearth,  and  brido. 

That  rose  above  their  roar 
Like  lights  amid  a  tempest  — 

Bright  beacons  of  the  land. 
Where  all  we  love  shall  hail  us  soon, 

A  joy-mspiring  band ! 


THE   YOUNG    MOTHER 
VI. 

'Tuas  then  I  s^w  that  mother, 

And  babt  -vi  Jth  silken  hair, 
And  all  a  mo:her's  pride  and  hope, 
"  Just  dashed  with  fear,  was  there. 
Her  head  upon  his  temple 

Was  stooped  in  pensive  rest, 
Minffling-  its  liafht,  uncumbered  locks 

With  those  that  veiled  her  breast. 
Her  eye,  just  dropped  in  shadow, 

Looked  melancholy  down. 
And  me  tear  that  glittered  from  its  deptl)S 

Was  not  of  grief  alone  — 
But  the  still  look  of  thankfulness 

That  o'er  her  features  fell, 
Lem  twen  to  the  tears  a  beam 

That  told  you  all  was  well ! 
One  arm  around  her  idol 

Protectingly  was  flung, 
The  other,  as  of  one  in  dreams, 

Beside  her  aimless  hung. — 


VII. 
O  Innocence  and  Beauty?  — 

And  Youth,  with  all  its  flowers, 
When  they  together  round  us  come, 

What  a  heritage  is  ours  ! 
Who  ever  dreams  a  sepulchre 

O'er  such  can  darkly  close, 


»  THE    YOVNC;    MOTHER 

Of  the  heart's  sim  e'er  set  in  clouds. 
That  robed  in  lustre  'ose I 

*         *         *         *         • 

VIII. 

Alas!  that  gentle  mother  — 

I  saw  her  not  again, 
Till,  in  my  village  wanderings, 

I  joined  th"  burial  train. 
They  told  mi ,  as  we  silent  wheeled 

Among  the  verdant  graves, 
That  he,  her  first  —  last  hope  on  eartn. 

Was  snatched  into  the  waves  !  — 
And,  ever  after,  that  her  cheek. 

Like  her  infant's  eye,  grew  dim. 
And  her  waning  life  was  but  a  praver. 

Or  quiet,  lonely  hymn.  — 
And  thus  her  passing  spirit 

Beheld  her  infant's  go, 
'Till  all  that  lit  her  pilgrimage 

Was  shattered  at  a  blow. 
Then,  pointing  to  the  tomb,  her  late 

Began  their  faltering  way 
Through  earth's  last  farewell  faded  3loom. 

lb  Immorialiiv! 


MUERTE    EN    GARROTE   VIL. 


BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  A  YEAR  IN  SPAIN. 


It  was  my  fortune  to  be  in  Madrid  during  the 
whole  month  of  February,  1834.  For  years  the 
hard  hand  of  despotism  had  borne  heavily  on  the  peo- 
ple of  that  brilliant  capital,  dooming  them  to  a 
state  of  quiescent  dulness  unsuited  to  their  character. 
The  theatre  and  the  bull-fignt  were  the  only  pastimes 
permitted  by  a  jealous  government  uncertain  of  its 
stability,  and  suspicious  of  any  reunions  that  might 
minister  to  the  designs  of  conspirators  against  the 
Altar  and  the  Throne.  The  theatre,  of  course,  under 
a  searching  censorship,  might  easily  be  prevented 
from  becoming  a  school  of  insubordination.  There 
was  little  danger  of  the  audience  extracting  from  the 
entertainment,  which  was  there  provided  for  them, 
any  such  lessons  of  disloyalty  as  might  have  been 
dra\vn  from  the  representations  of  tragedies  like  the 
Philip  of  Alfieri.  Their  religious  feelings  were  kept 
alive,  on  the  contrary,  by  the  spectacle  of  Pelayo. 
7* 


78  MUERTEENGARROTEVii,. 

Struggling  in  defence  of  the  faith;  or  of  the  CataoliC 
kings  administering  the  death  blow  to  Paganism  in 
the  vega  of  Granada ;  their  loyalty  was  nourished  by 
the  contemplation  of  how  thai  truly  Spanish  virtue 
was  honored  in  the  achievements  of  the  Cid,  of  Guz 
man,  and  of  Garei  Perez  de  Vargas ;  whilst  in  order 
not  wholly  to  weary  with  the  tame  spectacle  of  good- 
ness creatures  born  with  all  the  evil  propensities  that 
man  is  heir  to,  and  to  cultivate  a  sentiment  natural  to 
the  soil,  which  might  be  turned  advantageously  against 
all  liberals,  free-masons,  and  enemies  to  the  ancient 
customs  of  Spain — that  of  which  a  Spaniard  thinks 
when  he  exclaims  with  such  a  proud  energy  — 
nuestros  antiguos  cosiumhres! — The  sentiment  of  stern 
hatred  was  kept  alive  in  their  bosoms,  by  the  frequent 
exhibition  of  such  scenes  as  abound  in  the  '  Secret 
Revenge  to  a  Secret  Injury,'  or,  '  Vengeance  ta  the 
Death;'  the  merciless  imaginations  of  that  Calderon, 
who  had  a  double  claim  to  be  vindictive,  in  being  both 
a  soldier  and  a  priest.  The  bull-fight,  the  never  failing 
spectacle  of  death  to  man  or  beast,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  to  both ;  the  tragedy,  in  which  all  the  blows 
are  real,  and  the  blood,  the  warm  current  in  whivh 
life  pours  itself  forth,  was  well  suited,  by  brutalizing 
the  minds  of  the  common  people,  to  accomn  odate 
them  to  the  c'espotism  under  which  they  lived. 

In  those  days,  each  carnival  camo  and  wont  unat- 
tended with  rejoicings,  beyond  the  discharge  of  sugar- 
plums at  a  passing  acquaintance,  from  a  fair  haJid 
behind  a  balcony  or  veran.iah.  There  we"e  no  public 
balls,    and    even   person?  of   distinction,    wishing  to 


MUERTEENGARBOTEVIL  7!« 

nonof  the  season,  by  a  festive  reunion,  within  the 
domestic  citadel,  and  sanctuary  of  their  own  homes, 
could  with  difficuhy  obtain  permission  to  do  so  from  the 
Prefect  of  Police.  Now-,  however,  all  was  changed. 
The  government  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
liberals  ;  unrestrained  license  had  succeeded  to  watch- 
ful oppression ;  balls  and  maskings  became  the  busi- 
ness of  life;  and  a  whole  population,  abandoning  itself 
to  a  mad  spirit  of  gayety,  sought  to  concentrate,  into 
one  month  of  revelry,  the  amusements  which  should 
have  been  spread  over  the  past  years,  during  which 
despotism  had  suppressed  them.  Theatres,  cafes,  and 
Uverns,  were  extemporized  into  ball-rooms.  There 
were  diversions  for  the  high  and  for  the  low ;  for 
those  who  had  great  means,  and  those  who  had  little. 
Maskers  paraded  the  streets  in  the  most  grotesque 
costumes,  music  broke  from  each  house,  and  the 
tinkling  guitar  of  the  serenader  was  heard  under 
every  balcony. 

It  was  not  easy  to  be  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes 
without  being  dra^vn  into  the  universal  whirl. 
Though  there  Avas  nothing  in  all  this  round  of  dissi- 
pation congenial  to  my  hnbits,  or  in  harmony  with 
my  tastes,  I  yet  found  myself  almost  nightly  going, 
in  company  with  my  associates,  to  one  or  more  o^^ 
these  scenes  of  festivity  Fond  of  early  hours  and  of 
a  quiet  life,  each  morning  saw  me  retracing  my  steps 
to  my  lodgings,  serenaded  by  the  first  crowing  of  the 
cock,  and  the  howl  of  the  lazaroni  dogs,  Avhich  forage 
disowned  in  the  streets  of  the  capital. 

I  had  been  one  night  at  the  most  bril  iiant  ball  that 


so  MUERTE    EN    GARROTE    VIL 

I  had  ever  seen  in  Madrid.  It  was  at  the  palace  of 
an  illustrious  ambassador,  and  brought  together  an 
e'egant  assemblage  of  ministers  of  stale,  diplomats, 
the  choice  of  the  nobility,  and  whatever  was  most 
distinguished  in  the  capital.  The  collection  of  beauty- 
was  most  dazzling;  the  eyes,  the  forms,  the  feet,  the 
ankles,  such  as  could  only  be  seen  in  Spain ;  the 
dresses  were  imitated  from  all  that  is  most  graceful 
in  the  costumes  of  the  world,  and  the  supper  such  as 
to  do  no  discredit  to  a  host  who  was  there  with  a 
salary,  which,  done  into  Spanish  reals,  would  have 
made  somewhat  more  than  a  million.  With  such 
temptations,  and  with  people  to  talk  to,  whom  I  had, 
knovvn  and  valued  years  before,  it  was  easy  to  find 
the  time  slipping  away,  and  to  discover,  as  I  retraced 
my  steps  homeward,  that  the  hour  was  an  unusually 
late  one. 

1  made  as  I  went,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the 
reflection,  that  after  all,  the  most  agreeable  part  of  the 
most  agreeable  ball,  is  the  moment  when  one  escapes 
from  observation,  constraint,  and  suffocation,  to 
solitude  and  the  open  air, — to  communion  with  the 
serene  heavens,  and  with  himself  I  longed  for  the 
day  when  the  carnival  should  at  length  be  over,  and 
Catholic  Spain  return  from  masquerades  to  masses;  — 
when  sermons,  listened  to  in  the  dim  and  darkened 
naves  of  Gothic  temples,  should  sujjplant  the  flippant 
discourse  of  jaded  intriguers ;  —  the  solemnly  resound- 
ing thunder  of  the  organ,  the  soft  and  sober  tones  of 
bassoons  and  viols,  the  mellow  harmony  of  human 
'oicfs,  proceeding   ir    angelic   nalN'luiah.s    from    the 


MUERTE    EN    GARUOTE    VTF  f?l 

unseen  recesses  of  the  chantry,  should  repla:  e  the  'smi  rk- 
ing  gallope  and  the  mazurka;  -when  the  gaudy  mirrors, 
reflecting  the  already  offensive  glare  of  so  many  lus- 
tres, should  be  replaced  by  a  sober  twilight,  revealing 
and  mellowing  i  crucifixion  of  Espanolelo,  or  a  Santa 
Madre  of  Murill,  ;  when  the  dark  daughters  of  Spain 
should  give  over  iheir  parti-colored  tinsel,  their  mere- 
tricious smiles,  and  heartless  gayety,  to  resume  the 
sober  mantilla  and  basquinia  in  which  they  first  won 
upon  my  boyish  heart,  and  which  so  harmonize  with 
the  habitual  expression  of  their  pale,  thoughtful,  and 
melancholy  countenances,  and  full  languid  eyes. 

The  next  morning  I  rose  weary,  feverish,  unrefresh- 
ed,  and  melancholy.  I  went  to  my  balcony  as  I  Avas 
wont,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  take  the  sun  instead  ol 
the  less  agreeable  heat  which  a  brasero  afforded,  look 
down  upon  the  ever  gay  and  animating  spectacle  pre- 
sented by  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  which  lay  before  me, 
and  exchange  my  morning's  salutation  with  an  old 
and  well-beloved  acquaintance,  whose  balcony  was 
beside  mine.  By  common  consent,  growing  out  of  a 
sympathy  of  tastes,  we  were  both  in  the  habit  of  com- 
ing forth  at  the  sound  of  the  music  of  one  of  the  regi- 
ments of  the  grenadiers  of  the  royal  guard,  on  its  way 
to  relieve  the  detachment  performing  duty  at  the 
palace.  After  the  platoon  had  turned  the  angle  of  the 
gate  of  the  Sun,  and  the  music  ceased  to  delight  us 
with  its  animating  strains,  we  were  wont  to  exchange 
the  usual  courtesies  of  the  land,  to  inquire  for  each 
other's  health,  how  each  had  rested,  and  to  recount  all 
the  adventures  that  had  been  crowded  into  the  interval 


S2  MUFRTK    TN    (;.\nROTR    VIL. 

sin  .e  the  last  meeting,  or,  in  default  of  other  subjects, 
to  criticise  whatever  might  be  curious  in  the  groups 
below. 

On  this  occasion,  my  attention  was  called  to  the 
tinkling  bell  of  a  member  of  the  Paz  y  Caridad,  who, 
in  a  solemn  voice,  was  inviting  all  charitable  souls  to 
join  in  interposing  with  such  humble  alms  as  they 
were  pleased  to  contribute,  to  smooth  the  parting 
hour,  and  redeem  from  purgatory,  by  means  ol 
masses,  the  soul  of  the  unhappy  brother  whose  life 
was  that  day  to  be  required  of  him.  He  had  before 
him  a  square  box,  having  a  hole  to  receive  the  alms 
of  the  charitable,  surmounted  by  a  figure  of  the  cruci- 
fied Savior,  calculated  at  once  to  awaken  a  devotional 
feeling  in  the  bosom  of  the  Christian,  and  to  call  to 
mind  the  recollection  that  He,  like  the  unhappy  cri- 
minal who  was  that  day  to  expiate  his  offences,  had 
died — though  innocently  and  for  our  propitiation  — 
the  death  of  a  felon. 

There  was,  then,  to  be  an  execution.  It  was  sure 
to  be  a  spectacle  full  of  horror,  and  painful  excite- 
ment ;  yet  I  determined  to  witness  it.  I  felt  sad  and 
melancholy,  and  yet,  by  a  strange  perversion,  I  was 
willing  to  feel  more  so.  With  the  customary  cho- 
colate and  omelette,  the  good  dame.  Dona  Lucrttia, 
my  landlady,  brought  me  the  Diario.  I  turned  at 
once  to  see  what  was  said  about  the  execution. 
Among  the  orders  of  the  day,  was  the  (bllowing — 
"  Having  to  suffer  this  day,  at  eleven  in  the  morning, 
in  the  square  of  Cebada,  the  pain  of  death  on  the 
vile   garrote.    to    wliich    he    was    sentenced   by   th« 


MUERTE    EN    GARROTE    VIL.  S3 

military  comraission  of  this  province,  Juan  Lopez 
Solorzano,  alias  the  Birdcatcher,  a  native  of  Las  Altas 
Torres,  in  La  Mancha,  thirty-eight  years  of  age. 
a  bachelor,  late  a  grenadier  of  the  disbanded  royalist 
volunteers  of  this  capital,  accused  of  having  been 
one  of  the  first  aggressors  in  the  rebellion  of  October 
last,  on  the  occasion  of  disarming  that  corps ;  to  aid 
in  this  execution,  a  detachment  of  the  Provincial 
Regiment  of  Granada,  and  another  of  the  Cuirassiers 
of  the  Royal  Guard,  will  repair  to  the  place  ot 
execution  at  half  past  ten,  whilst  at  the  same  hour, 
another  detachment  of  the  aforesaid  regiment  of 
Granada,  and  of  the  Light  Horse  of  Madrid,  will 
report  to  the  Corregidor,  at  the  prison,  in  readiness 
to  guard  the  prisoner  to  the  scaffold,  leaving  a  cor 
poral's  guard  to  protect  the  body  after  justice  is 
consummated,  until  the  Paz  y  Caridad  shall  come  to 
withdraw  it." 

Such  was  the  succinct  and  sententious  information 
giv^en  me  by  the  Diario.  I  learned,  in  addition, 
from  Dona  Lucretia,  that  the  Pajarero,  or  Bird- 
catcher,  was  so  called,  because  he  had  for  same 
years  lived  by  selling  doves  and  singing  birds  in  the 
square  of  the  Holy  Cross.  He  had  been  a  turbulen', 
quarrelsome  fellow,  had  killed  a  number  of  persons 
at  various  times,  for  all  which  misdeeds  he  had 
found  protection  in  being  a  royalist  volunteer,  and 
a  regular  attendant  at  mass  and  the  confessional. 
In  the  late  disbanding  of  the  royalist  volunteers, 
those  janizaries  of  the  Spanish  hierarchy,  he  had 
■taken  an  active  part  in  the   revcH,   killi»  o-  with  his 


S4  MUERTE    EN    CAR  ROTE    VIL. 

own  hand  one  of  the  partizans  of  the  queen,  ni  the 
square  of  the  Angel.  During  fifty-three  days  he  had 
been  concealed  by  persons  friendly  to  the  old  order  of 
things ;  but  had  at  last  been  sold  by  some  mercenar} 
Judas,  and  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  justice. 

It  had  chanced  that  I  had  attended  the  court- 
martial  on  the  day  of  his  trial,  and  I  was  not  a  little 
struck  with  the  peculiar  vein  of  eloquence,  in  which 
the  fiscal  devoted  him  to  damnation  ere  yet  he  had 
been  produced  before  the  court. — "Soon  will  this 
vile  assassin  present  himself  before  you.  The  tribu- 
nal will  then  see  his  detestable  soul  painted  in  liis 
countenance,  and  will  need  no  other  evidence  to 
discover  the  atrocious  image  of  a  regicide."  Such, 
alike  under  despotism  and  in  the  hands  of  liberals, 
is  the  vindictive  character  of  Spanish  retribution. 
Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  just  to  add,  that  of 
seventy-three  royalists  condemned  to  death  for  a  revolt, 
with  the  alleged  intention  of  murdering  the  queen, 
the  Birdcatcher  was  alone  selected,  as  the  most 
infamous,  for  execution.  The  rest  were  taken  from 
prison  in  the  dead  of  the  succeeding  night,  and 
being  manacled,  were  marched  off  under  a  stnmg 
escort  for  Ceuta.  One  of  them,  in  an  excess  of 
despair,  dashed  his  brains  out  against  the  postern  of 
the  prison.  The  scene  in  the  neighborhood  was 
represented  to  me  as  having  been  most  deplorable  on 
the  following  morning.  The  news  of  the  departure 
of  these  prisoners  had  spread  to  the  obscure  barriers 
of  the  capital,  and  their  families  had  gathered  round 
ill  an  agony  of  bereavement.     Mothers,  wives,  an*' 


MIJERTE    EN    GAnitOTC    V  1 1. .  M 

.ove.  ,jre  their  hair,  and  rent  the  air  with  shri(;ks, 
and  exclamations  of  wo ;  whilst  the  children,  thus 
suddenly  left  fatherless,  looked  on  with  a  dumb 
amazement  —  an  indistinct  sense  of  some  great  cala- 
thity  —  scarcely  less  painful  and  heart-rending. 
There  were  fifty  wives  who  found  themselves  thus 
suddenly  reduced  to  liopeless  widowhood,  whilst 
more  than  twice  that  number  of  children  looked 
round,  and  saAv  that  they  were  fatherless. 

Divesting  the  mind  of  all  fanaticism,  whether  in 
favor  of  liberty  or  despotism,  the  offences  of  these 
men  will  not  seem  so  eqi>^l  to  their  fate  as  to  close 
the  heart  against  every  sentiment  of  pity.  They  were 
victimrj  of  tneir  fidelity  to  an  order  of  things  which 
but  a  few  months  before  received  the  adhesion  ot 
the  king,  the  court,  the  army,  was  acquiesced  in 
by  the  whole  nation,  and  still  had  the  sympathy 
of  a  vast  irtajority  of  the  Spanish  people.  Oh ! 
Americans !  whilst  you  pity  the  land  in  which 
liberty  is  unknown,  and  unappreciated,  learn  to  value 
the  blessings  which  you  enjoy,  and  cultivate  an  ever 
increasing  admiration  and  love  for  that  birthright  ot 
freedom  which  has  been  bequeathed  to  you. 

I  took  my  way  through  the  gate  of  the  Sun  to  the 
noble  front  of  the  prison  of  the  court.  I  had  been 
permitted  to  visit  it  a  few  days  before,  by  means  of 
a  royal  order  furnished  me  by  Burgos,  the  then 
minister  of  Fomento.  On  that  occasion  the  Pajarero 
had  been  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  greatest  curiosity 
of  the  place  My  readers  may  not  be  aware  that 
among    the    common    people    of    Spain,    villanous 

8 


i6  MUERTE   EN    GaRROTE    VIL. 

distinction  of  any  sort,  as  that  of  a  foot-pad,  or  inur 
derer,  alwaj'S  entitles  the  possessor  to  a  species  of 
war-name;  thus,  El  Gato,  or  Cat,  was  the  formidable 
and  dreaded  appellation  of  a  Valencian  robber,  who 
flourished  a  few  )  ears  since,  •  enacting  a  fearfu. 
tragedj'  in  my  presence,  and  who  was  noted  for  the 
tiger-like  and  ferocious  certainty  with  which  he  was 
wont  to  pounce  upon  his  prey ;  El  Cacaruco  was 
the  droll  cognomen  of  a  scarcely  less  distinguished 
worthy,  by  whom  I  had  once  been  most  courteously 
plundered  in  the  plains  of  La  Mancha ;  whilst  the 
famous  Jose  Maria,  was  graced  with  the  more  compli- 
mentary title  —  a  tribute,  at  once,  to  his  power  and 
his  magnanimity— of  el  SeH  r  del  Campo. 

The  Pajarero  was  a  name  of  inferior  note.  When 
his  crimes  were  recoimted  to  me.  I  felt  little  inclina- 
tion to  pity  him.  Whatever  sympathy  I  had  at  my 
command,  had  already  been  bestowed  upon  the  more 
pitiable  objects  which  met  my  sight  in  that  mansion 
of  despair.  There  seemed,  moreover,  to  be  a  sort 
of  poetical  justice  in  the  shutting  up  of  an  individual, 
.who,  whilst  he  had  been  a  monster  to  his  fellow-men, 
had  passed  his  life  in  making  war  against  the  liberties 
of  those  winged  inhabitants  of  the  air — those  happy 
oensioners  of  nature  —  whose  capacities  barely  fit 
them  to  enjoy  liberty,  and  to  lan^-iiish  and  pine  away 
when  deprived  of  it.  He  was,  besides,  a  most  ill- 
favored  and  ferocious  looking  mat  aiul  the  fiscal 
would  do\il)tless  have  been  borne  out  by  Lavater  m 
his  assertion,  that  it  was  easy  to  see  "  his  detestable 
fcoul  painted  in  his  countenarre." 


MUERTE  EN    GARROTE    VIL  '87 

The  prison-  was  already  surrounded  by  a  dense 
crowd.  The  escort,  v/liich  was  to  conduct  the 
prisoner  to  the  place  of  execution,  Avas  at  its  post, 
and  squadrons  of  cavalry  patrolled  the  streets  leading 
to  It,  keeping  the  way  open,  and  beating  back  the 
crowd  v\'ith  their  saores,  and  trampling  upon  them 
with  the  armed  hoofs  of  their  horses,  much  in  the 
same  manner  as  if  the  government  had  still  been  that 
of  the  Absolute  King,  and  the  felon  a  false-hearted 
liberal.  It  was  expt-cted,  and  earnestly  reported, 
that  there  was  to  be  a  popular  tumult  among  the 
serviles,  and  an  attempt  by  the  disbanded  volunteers 
to  rescue  their  heroic  ci'mrade.  The  government, 
unwilling  to  betray  any  weakness,  did  not  however 
increase  the  detachment  of  troops  on  immediate  duty 
beyond  what  Avas  usual.  Yet  preparations  were 
secretly  made  to  pour  forth  an  overwhelming  military 
force.  The  troops  of  the  garrison  were  ready  to 
marrh  at  a  moment's  warning,  and  individual  cava- 
li(  r>-  of  the  body  guard,  in  their  gay  uniforms  and 
antique  casques,  were  seen  at  each  instant  spurring 
away  on  their  fleet  barbs,  of  the  caste  of  Aranjuez, 
to  carry  to  the  palace  the  anxiously  received  intimva- 
tion  that  all  was  still  well. 

I  did  not  look  with  any  particular  complacency 
upon  these  military  youths,  notwithstanding  their 
gay  uniforms  and  handsome  persons.  To  be  sure, 
I  had  once  claimed  as  an  intimate  and  valued  friend, 
a  noble  young  Andalusian  —  noble  not  less  in  the 
real  than  in  the  accepted  sense  —  who  belonged  to 
this  corps.     In  general,  however,  they  are  neld   i^ 


98  MUERTK   EN   OAIUIOTE    VII.. 

little  estimation,  and  never  in  less  than  at  that 
moment;  f:r,  but  a  few  clays  before,  one  of  them  was 
detected,  by  the  waiter  of  a  restaurant,  in  the  act 
of  concealing  twa  silver  forks  in  the  capacious 
receptacle  of  his  trooper's  boots,  which,  however 
constructed  with  other  motives,  were  not  il.-adapted 
to  the  purpose  of  quiet  and  unobserved  abstraction. 
After  all,  there  was  nothing  so  strange  in  this,  when 
one  looked  at  the  short  distance  from  the  top  of  the 
yawning-  boot  to  the  tempting  cover,  a  few  niches 
distant  on  the  edge  of  the  table;  reflecting,  at  the 
same  time,  that  the  youth  had  to  support  all  tlie 
dignity  of  a  nobility,  unsullied  on  four  sides  by  any 
mingling  of  base  blood,  upon  the  paltry  stipend  of 
tAventy  dollars  a  month.  "  Viren  los  chocolalerosT  — 
cried  the  crowd,  as  they  spurred  along,  that  bfeing 
the  vulgar  cognomen  applied  to  them,  because  choco- 
late is  the  only  refreshment  served  to  them  from  the 
royal  kitchen,  when  on  duty  at  the  palace. 

At  length  the  prisoner  was  brought  forth,  tie 
was  dressed  in  a  penitential  robe  of  yellow ;  on  his 
head  was  a  cap  of  the  same  color,  faced  by  a  white 
cross.  His  face  was  pale,  less  apparently  from  fear 
than  long  confinement,  for  his  frame  was  not  con- 
vulsed, and  his  hands  trembled  not  as  he  grasped 
before  him  a  paper  from  which  he  chanted  a  prayer, 
uttered  with  an  earnestness  proportioned  to  the  little 
time  that  remained  to  him  to  make  his  peace  with 
heaven,  and  the  conviction  that  he  was  about  to  enter 
on  an  eternity  of  bliss  or  misery,  the  common  belief 
of  a  land  in  which,  though  there  mav  be  much  crimt\ 


MUERTE    EN   GARROTE    VIL.  89 

Jiere  is  as  yet  but  little  infidelity.  A  dark  beard, 
which  was  of  many  days'  growla,  augmented  the 
ghastliness  of  his  expression. 

At  his  side  was  a  friar  of  the  order  of  Mercy,  m 
a  wliitL'  habit  and  a  shaven  crown,  who  held  before 
the  unhappy  man  a  crucifix,  bearing  an  image  of 
the  Savior,  through  whose  intercession  he  might 
yet,  by  repentance,  be  saved.  With  one  arm  the 
holy  man  embraced  the  prisoner,  whispering  in  his 
ear  words  of  consolation  and  comfort,  and  accompa- 
nying him  as  he  faltered  in  his  prayers.  He  was 
seated  on  a  white  ass,  his  legs  bound  below ;  and  the 
patient  unconsciousness  of  the  docile  animal  of  the 
errand  on  which  it  was  going,  contrasted  singularly 
with  the  interest  and  irresistible  sympathy,  which  all 
there  felt  in  the  fate  of  a  fellow  man,  about  to  enter 
on  the  unknoAvn  regions  of  eternity. 

The  brotherhood  of  Peace  and  Charity,  each  mem- 
ber bearing  a  torch,  gathered  closely  around  the 
victim,  whom,  from  a  sentiment  of  humanity,  and  in 
fulfilment  of  their  solemn  vow,  they  had  comforted 
with  their  society  and  aided  with  their  prayers ;  for 
his  sake  they  had  become  mendicants  through  the 
public  streets,  collecting  sufficient  alms  from  the 
charitable  to  supply  with  comfort  and  decency  the 
last  wants  of  nature;  and,  when  justice  should  have 
wreaked  its  necessary  vengeance  upon  his  body, 
they  were  to  withdraw  it  from  its  place  of  ignomi- 
nious exposure  consign  it  w  th  careful  decency 
tb  the  tomb,  and  offer  prayers  and  masses  for  the 
fc-oul  which  had  taken  its  flight. 


90  MUEKTE    EN    nARIlOTE    VIL 

So  soon  as  all  had  reached  the  street,  the  soldiers  ga- 
thered round,  their  serried  bayonets  seeming  to  shut 
out  all  hope  of  rescue,  and  the  nuifflod  drum  biiatins^a 
monotonous  andmournful  measure,  the  procession  set 
forward  to  the  scene  of  death.  The  singular  combina- 
tion of  this  group — the  criminal,  the  ass,  the  cowled 
friar  in  his  white  robe,  the  torch-bearing  brothers  of  the 
Paz  y  Caridad,  the  stern  and  mustachioed  warriors  who 
guarded  the  law's  victim,  offered  to  the  eye  a  singular 
spectacle,  whilst  the  chanting  of  the  criminal  and  of 
the  compassionating  spirits  who  joined  in  his  prayers, 
mingling  strangely  with  the  hoarse  drum,  and  the 
measured  tramp  of  the  soldiers,  bringing  nearer  al 
every  footfall  the  moment  of  the  catastrophe — all  tended 
to  impress  the  beholder  with  a  gloomy  and  terrible 
interest.  *• 

It  was  expected,  that  if  there  were  any  riot  or 
attempt  at  rescue,  it  would  take  place  in  the  street  of 
Toledo,  before  the  portal  of  the  Jesuits's  Church  of 
San  Isidro.  Not  many  weeks  later,  indeed,  an  insur- 
rection did  occur  there.  The  population  of  the 
adjoining  quarter  broke  forth  into  mutiny  and  rebel- 
lion; liberals  and  royalists  jomed  in  deadly  conflict, 
churchmen  and  friars  were  immolated  in  the  streets, 
and  the  pavement  was  strewed  with  corpses,  and 
crimsoned  with  Spanish  blood,  shed  by  the  hands  of 
Spaniards.  But  the  spirit  of  rebellion  so  lately 
repressed,  was  not  yet  ripe  for  a  new  e.xplosion.  San 
Isidro  was  passed  without  commo.ion  of  any  s  <rt, 
and  the  procession  af.  length  reached  the  Plaza.  '1  he 
Didinary  avocations,  of  which   it   is  the  daily  scene. 


MUERTE    tN    GAMROTE    VIL.  91 

had  ceased.  It  was  filled  with  a  crowd  of  curious 
spectators.  Cloaked  men,  and  women  in  mantillas, 
as  if  arrayed  for  mass,  occupied  the  whole  square, 
whilst  the  sheds  and  the  gratings  of  die  surrounding 
windows  were  covered  with  clambering  and  ambi- 
tious urchins,  each  anxious  to  contemplate,  from  the 
highest  elevation,  the  scene  which  so  great  a  crowd 
had  collected  to  behold.  The  balconies  were  filled 
with  well-dressed  people,  and  from  not  a  few,  beauty, — 
hardened  to  painful  spectacles  by  the  tortures  of  the 
arena,  —  was  seen  to  gaze  with  curious  earnestness. 

At  one  of  the  balconies  I  noticed  the  towering  and 
"  ilitary  figure  of  the  brave  colonel  of  the  Madrid 
Light  Horse,  to  whom  I  had  the  honor  of  being 
known.  I  entered  the  house,  and,  presenting  myseli 
at  the  door  of  the  no  less  doughty  countryman  of  the 
doughty  Dugald  Dalgetty,  was  received  most  cor- 
dially, and  welcomed  to  a  station  in  his  balcony. 
I  was  at  once  absorbed  by  the  pamful  interest  which 
attracted  my  attention  to  the  person  of  the  culprit. 
The  colonel,  on  the  contrary,  was  filled  with  delight, 
at  the  spirited  manner  in  whic  his  horsemen  kepi 
the  way  open;  beating  back  the  more  pressing  intru 
ders,  by  frequent  and  forceful  blows  wi\h  the  flat  ot 
their  long  Toledo  sabres,  and  reining  their  steeds 
most  unceremoniously  backward  upon  them.  Tim 
colonel  was  a  fierce  liberal.  He  was  delighted  witli 
the  way  in  which  his  brave  fellows  routed  the  rabble 
mob,  and,  being  armed  from  cap  to  rowel,  would 
doubtless  have  been  delighted  to  have  ar.  .jpport-.ijity, 
is  indeed  he  soon   afterward?   had,  ot    heading   h's 


92  MUERTE    EN    GARROTE    VIL 

squadron,  who  were  drawn  up  in  readiness  in  the 
neinhbo)-ing-  barrack,  and  riding  down  all  opposition. 

The  .nstrument  of  execution  was  different  from 
what  I  had  been  .accustomed  to  see  in  Spain.  It  was 
the  garrote,  which  the  liberals,  actuated  by  the  spirit 
of  improvement,  exercising  itself  first  as  in  revolu- 
tionary France,  in  a  more  ingenious  method  of  putting 
people  to  death,  had  substituted  for  the  gallows. 
The  form  of  it  wis  very  simple.  A  single  upright 
post  was  planted  in  the  ground,  having  attached  to  it 
an  iron  coLar,  large  enough  to  receive  the  neck  of 
the  culprit,  but  capable  of  being  suddenly  tightened 
to  much  smaller  dimensions^  by  means  of  a  screw 
which  played  against  the  back  of  the  post,  and  had 
a  very  open  spiral  thread.  A  short  elbow  projected 
at  right  angles  from  the  upright  post,  for  the  crimimal 
to  sit  on,  the  screw  being  attached  to  the  post  at  a 
distance  above,  suited  to  the  height  of  his  body. 

When  the  procession  had  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the 
gallows,  the  Bir4catcher  was  unbound  and  removed 
from  the  ass,  and  seated  upon  the  projecting  elbow  of 
the  garrote,  which  looked  towards  the  east.  His 
legs  were  again  bound  securely  to  the  post  on  which 
he  was  sealed,  and  his  arms  and  body  to  the_  upright 
timber  at  his  l)ack.  Here  he  made  his  last  confession 
at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold.  The  friar  chanted  the 
prayers  which  the  Church  has  set  apart  for  the 
closing  scene  of  life's  latest  hour.  The  criminal 
repeated  his  responses  fervently  and  audibly.  Ho 
was  now  convinced  that  there  was  to  be  no  reprieve 
und   no   rescue.     Each  moment   was  more   precious 


Mi/nuTK  n;  N  cari'ote  vil.  93 

to  the  salvation  of  his  soul  than  worlds  of  treasure. 
He  remembered  that  the  penitent  thief  had  been 
forgiven  at  his  latest  hour — Why  might  he  not  hope, 
being  also  penitent,  to  claim  that  precious  promise  — 
"To-day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise?" 

The  friar  whispered  words  of  consolation.  He 
pronounced  the  promise  of  absolution,  and  covering 
the  unhappy  man  with  the  folds  of  his  ample  robe, 
thereby  signified  that  he  was  a  pardoned  because  a 
repentant  sinner,  and  as  such  admitted  into  the  bosom 
of  the  Church.  The  scene  at  this  moment  Avas  one  ot 
awful  interest.  The  eyes  of  that  vast  crowd,  filling 
the  square,  and  clustering  on  gratings,  balconies,  and 
house-tops,  were  fixed  with  intensely  excited  gaze  on 
the  one  object  of  attention.  The  battalion  of  infantry 
formed  an  impenetrable  phalanx  around  the  scaffold. 
Behind  it,  mounted  on  powerful  coal  black  horses,  a 
squadron  of  cuirassiers,  wdth  drawn  sabres,  and  clad 
in  panoply  of  steel,  were  drawn  up  ready  for  instant 
action,  yet  as  motionless  as  death.  The  glorious  sun 
of.a  Castilian  heaven,  shining  through  an  atmosphere 
yet  more  brilliant  and  unclouded  than  our  own,  was 
sent  back  in  brisfht  reflection  from  cuirasses  embla- 
zoned  with  its  own  gorgeous  image,  glancing  from 
antique  casqaes,  and  flickering  round  the  points  of 
sabres  and  bayonets. 

Still  for  a  moment  the  man  of  God  covered,  with 
his  garb  of  sanctity,  the  figure  of  the  criminal.  And 
now  it  is  withdrawn,  and  the  executioner  w^ith  dex- 
trous art  quickly  and  stealthily  adjusts  the  iron  collar 
to  the  neck  of  his  victim.     A  hand  is  on  either  end  0/ 


W  MUERTE    EN    GARROTE    VIL. 

the  powerful  lever  which  works  the  tightening-  screw. 
Liie  has  reacheii  its  extremest  limit,  time  is  dropping 
his  last  sand ;  ere  y«5t  it  is  quite  fallen,  one  prayer  of 
supplication  is  uttered  for  mercy  in  that  eternity 
which  begins.  Quick  as  lightning  the  motion  is 
given  to  the  fatal  lever;  a  momentary  con\'ulsion 
agitates  his  frame,  and  horribly  distorts  his  counte- 
nance, and  the  sinner  is  Vvith  his  God.  The  bell  of 
the  neighbor-.ng  church  tolls  a  mournful  requiem 
from,  the  top  of  its  tower ;  lips  are  seen  to  move  in 
muttered  prayer  to  speed  the  parting  soul,  and  ten 
thousand  breasts  are  signed  together  with  the  cross  of 
reconciliation.  A  fleet  horseman  darts  away  at  a 
gallop  to  announce  to  the  alarmed  inmates  of  the 
palace,  that  justice  has  not  been  robbed  of  its  victim, 
and  that  its  consummation  is  complete. 

Thus  ignominously  died  Solorzano,  surnamed  El 
Pajarero.  His  sins  to  his  fellow  men  upon  earth 
were  exfiated;  let  us  hope  that  he  may  find  mcrcv  in 
•leaven.     P(;ace  to  his  soul ! 


THE    RESCUE. 


Portine  jr  rather  the  good  foresight  of  Anne  Burras,  at  .ength  trouglij 
Ihem  to  a  little  basin,  sunic  a  few  feet  into  the  ground,  at  the  bcttom  o/ 
which  bubbled  a  clear  spring,  almost  the  only  one  in  that  sandy  region. 
Here,  Fenton,  who  led  the  van,  approaching  with  the  silent  caution  of  a 
cat,  discovered  his  little  Inst  sheep.  The  Indians  liad  kindled  a  fire  to 
cooit  a  piece  of  venison,  and  sat  quietly  smoking  their  long  pipes. 

Just  as  they  were  taking  aim,  the  boy  passed  suddenly  between  them 
and  the  Ir.  Jians.  Foster  shuddered,  and  dropped  the  muzzle  of  his  piece. 
Again  he  raised  his  deadly  rifle,  and  again,  just  at  the  actual  moment,  the 
boy  glided  between  t>><^  savages  and  death. —  Old  Times  in  the  new  World, 

i.  K.  Pauldino. 


There  was  a  fountain  m  the  wilderness, 
A  small  lone  basin,  undefiled  and  bright, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  forest  king". 
The  immemorial  oak  —  whose  giant  form. 
With  gnarled  trunk,  and  tortuous  branches  old, 
And  wreathed  canopy  of  moss  and  vines, 
•  Filled  the  transparent  mirror.     From  its  depth 
Of  limpid  blackness  leaped  the  living  spring, 
A  gush  of  silvery  gems,  that  rose  and  burst, 
Studding,  but  ruffling  not,  its  glassy  sheen. 

It  was  the  height  and  hush  of  summer  nooii'-- 
There  was  no  warbling' in  the  air,  ncr  hum 
Of  bird  or  bee,  —  the  very  breeze  was  dead, 
That  evermore  amid  the  vocal  leaves 
Is  blithe  and  musical, — the  brooklet's  flow 
Through  the  dank  herbs  was  voiceless,  — and  the  speli 


96  THE    RESCUE 

Of  silence  brooded,  like  a  spirit's  wing, 
O'er  the  pure  fountain  and  the  giant  tree. 

Worn  with  the  heat,  the  burthen,  and  the  toil. 
They  rested  them  beside  the  lucent  marge, 
The  maiden  and  her  captors.  —  Stern  and  stil. 
The  tawny  hun.  ;rs  sate,  — the  thin  blue  smoke 
Upcurling  from  the  tube,  that  steeped  their  souls 
In  opiate  dreams  of  apathy,  —  the  glare 
Of  the  red  firelight  flashing  broad  and  high 
On  their  impassive  features,  shaven  brows, 
And  scalp-locks  decked  with  the  war-eagle's  plumt 
Beside  them,  yet  aloof,  their  delicate  prize, 
The  forest  damsel  lay  —  the  forest  flower, 
Untimely  severed  from  its  parent  stem. 
Blighted  yet  beautiful.     Her  fair  young  head 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  her  pale  cheek  wet  with  wo, 
And  those  sweet  limbs,  that  wont  to  fix  all  eyes, 
Wounded  and  weary !   Yet  her  heart  was  strong 
In  glorious  confidence ;  her  calm  clear  eye 
Soared  upward ;  and,  although  tiie  lips  were  mute 
Heart-orisons  arose,  —  more  fragrant  far 
Than  vapory  perfumes,  —  sweeter  than  the  peal 
Of  choral  voices,  —  when  some  cloistered  pile 
Thrills  to  the  organ's  diapason  deep 
In  pomp  sublime  of  regal  gratitude. 
And  he,  the  seedling  gem,  that  nestled  there 
In  that  pure  bosom  —  never  more,  perchance, 
Oh  !  never  more  —  to  glad  a  parent's  soul 
With  beaming  smiles  and  sportive  innocence.  — 
No!  they  were  not  deserted  '  —  Hagar  found 


THE    RESCUE.  » 

In  the  salt  wilderness  a  living  well ! 

And  Hezekiah  saw,  at  dawn  of  day, 

The  shouting  myriads  of  Sennacherib 

Stretched  —  horse  and  rider  —  on  the  b  oodless  plain 

By  angel-swords  of  pestilence  divine !  — 

if  ea !   on  the  cursed  tree  the  perishing  thief, 

At  the  tenth  hour,  received  the  word  of  gract\ 

When  hope  itself  was  hopeless  !  — Who  believes 

Shall  never  be  forsaken  —  never  fall !  — 

She  heard  them  rustling  in  the  tufted  brake  — 
The  snapping  boughs  beneath  their  cat-like  tread  — 
The  leaves  that  shivered,  though  the  clouds  aloft 
Hung    motionless,    betrayed     them !  —  They    were 

nigh  — 
Her  friends — her  rescuers !  —  She  did  not  spring 
In  frantic  joy  to  meet  them !  — Eye  —  hand  —  tongue. 
With  more  than  Roman  hardihood  of  heart 
Were  still  and  silent.     Yet  she  marked  the  range 
Of  the  bright  rifles,  and  she  dragged  him  down,  — 
Down  to  her  bosom  —  in  the  living  chain 
Of  her  white  arms,  that  trembled  not,  spell-bound 
By  agonizing  hope  vnore  keen  than  fear. 

Rang  the  report !  —  The  stream  of  vivid  fire 
Swept  o'er  her,  and  the  bullets  hurtled  near, 
Fearfully  near,  yet  harmless.  —  She  is  free 
Clasped  in  a  father's,  in  a,  lover's,  arms  !  — 
And  they,  their  brief  career  of  conquest  run, 
The  red  men  sleep,  no  more  the  yell  to  raise 
Of  fiendish  Avar,  or  light  the  pipe  of  peace.  h. 


THE  PRAYER  OF    THE   LYRE. 

BY  THE  AUXnOR  OP  '' ATALANTIB,"    "  THE  TEMASSEB."   <fcC. 


"Sweet  accord, — 
The  stars,  and  whispers  of  the  air,  that  swells 
Along  the  waters.     'Tis  *  spirit  tiuie, 
And  harmony  its  lanjjiiage.     Hear  its  strain, 
As  of  old  voices,  when  the  crowding  hills 
Leaned  forward,  willi  l)oguiled  ear,  to  catch 
The  fitful  mnniiur,  and,  with  pliant  mood, 
Requited  it  in  echoes,  softer  far, 
ind,  to  the  ear,  as  sweet." 


I. 

Calm,  beautiful,  the  night  — 

Sweetly  the  silvery  light 
Btrews  its  gay  gleams  along  the  slumbering  sea: 

While  roving  far  and  near, 

On  fitful  wing,  the  air 
Brings  to  the  sense  a  wild  strange  -.nelody 

II. 

And  silent  is  the  crowd, 
The  voices,  vexed  and  loi;d. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LIRE.  99 

That  had  been- death  to  these  SAveet  spells  around  — 

Oh,  let  us  seek  yon  beach, 

Where,  full  of  solemn  speech. 
The  billows  wake  our  thoughts  to  themes  profound. 

III. 

Night  is  Thought's  minister. 

And  we,  who  rove  with  her, 
Err  not  to  seek  her  now  m  scene  so  bright  — 

Scene  .hat  too  soon  departs, 

Yet  meet  for  gentle  hearts. 
And,  like  the  truth  they  pledged,  lovely  in  Heaven's 
own  sight. 

IV. 

'Twas  in  such  hour  as  this. 

That  roused  to  heaven-wrought  bliss, 
The  ancient  bard's  quick  spirit  moved  the  lyre; 

And,  harmonizing  earth, 

Then  Music  sprang  to  birth, 
•And  claimed,  so  sweet  her  form,  a  God  to  be  her  sire 


Then  the  wild  man  grew  tame, 

And  from  the  hill  tops  came 
The  shaggy-mantled  shepherd  with  his  flocks,— - 

And,  as  the  minstrel  sung. 

Old  Fable  found  his  tongue. 
And  raised  a  glittering  form  on  all  his  rocks 


Kin  THE-PRAVnR    OF   THE    LYRE. 

VI. 

Is  there  no  hope  again. 

For  that  high-chanted  strain, 
That  streamed  in  beauty  thcin  o'er  mount  and  valley 
wide ; 

When  from  each  hill  and  dell, 

Down  brought  by  Minstrel  spell. 
Bounding,  the  Muses  came,  in  joy  from  every  side, 

VII. 
When,  taught  by  spirit's  choice, 
Each  forest-thronging  voice 
Made  music  of  its  own  for  thousand  listening  ears ; 
When  every  flower  and  leaf 
Had  its  own  joy  and  grief. 
And   wings   descending   came    from  the   less-gifted 
spheres. 

VIII. 

Shall  the  time  never  more 

The  old  sweet  song  restore, 
That  made  the  stern  heart  gentle ;  and  to  all, 

The  vicious  as  the  good, 

The  kind  of  heart  or  rude, 
B  -^Dught  spells  that  swayed  each  soul  in  sweetest  thrall 


IX. 

The  sacred  groves  that  then 
Showed  spirit  forms  to  men, 


# 


THE  PRAYER   OF   TJIIi,  LY^E.  lOl 

And  crowned  high  hopes,  a.\iu  l,ed  to,  e?x:l'.  i^osCloJij 
siirine,  — 

The  oracles  that  wore 

Rich  robes  of  mystic  lore, 
And  taught,  if  not  a  faith,  at  least  a  song,  divine,  — 

X, 

Still  silent  —  will  they  keep 

In  a  cold  deathlike  sleep. 
Nor  minister  to  man,  nor  soothe  him,  as  of  old,  — 

Witniing  him  from  his  stye. 

To  immortality. 
Making  each  feeling  true,  making  each  virtue  bold,— 

XI. 

Oh,  will  they  not  descend, 

Sweet  spirits,  to  befriend, 
Bring  back  the  ancient  Muse,  bring  back  the  olden 
Lyre, 

Teach  us  the  holier  good, 

Of  that  more  pliant  mood, 
When  Self  untutored  came  to  light  affection's  fire,  — 

XII. 

When — yet  untaught  to  build, 

In  some  more  favored  field, 
His  cheerless  cabin  far  from  where  the  rest  abode, — 

He  had  no  thought  so  free. 

But  his  heart  yearned  to  be 
Bowed  down,  with  all  his  tribe,  to  each  domestic  God? 

9* 


10?  Tfc'E 'P'K.AVF*R.   OF   THE   LYRE. 

X.IW. 

Still  keeps  the  sky  as  fair, 

The  pleasant  Moon  still  there, 
And  the  winds  whisper  still,  as  if  upon  tl  em  borne 

Spirits  came  still  to  earth, 

Happy,  as  at  its  birth, 
To  rove  its  shadoAvy  walks,  now  crowded  and  forlorn 

XIV. 

'Tis  man  alone  is  changed  — 

The  shepherd — he  that  ranged 
O'er  the  wild  hills,  a  giant  in  the  sun — 

His  soul  and  eye  aloft, 

His  bosom  strong,  but  soft, 
With  spirit,  that  fresh  joy  from  each  new  season  won.~ 

XV. 

Look  on  him  now,  the  slave  i 

Since  that  sad  knowledge  gave 
The  restless  thirst  that  mocks  at  happy  quietvide ; 

The  innocent  joy  no  more, 

That  the  old  forests  wore. 
Nor  yet  the  charm  of  song,  may  soothe  his  sleepless 
mood. 

XVI. 
Power's  proud  consciousness,  — 
Ho  IV  should  it  ever  bless. 


« 


THE    PRAYER    OF  THE   LVRE.  103 

When  still  it  "prompts  a  dark  and  sleepless  strife, — 

A  sleepless  strife  to  sway, 

And  bear  that  spoil  away, 
Had  been  the  common  stock  in  his  old  shepherd  life. 

XVII. 

Ah,  me !  would  time  restore 

The  ancient  thirst,  the  lore, 
That  taught  sweet  dreams,  kind  charities  and  love, 

Soothing  the  spirit's  pride, 

Bidding  the  heart  confide, 
Lifting  the  hope  until  its  eye  grew  fixed  above. 

XVIII. 

Once,  once  again,  the  song. 

That  stayed  the  arm  of  wrong, — 
Once  more  the  sacred  strain  that  charmed  the  shep- 
herds rude ; 

Send  it,  sweet  spirits  ye, 

Who  lift  man's  destiny, — 
Once  more,  oh,  let  it  bless  our  solitude. 

XIX. 

Teach  us  that  strife  is  wo, 

The  love  of  lucre  low, 
And  but  high  hopes  and  thoughts  are  worthy  in  our 
aim; 

Teach  us  that  love  alone, 

Pure  love,  long  heavenward  floAvn, 
Can  bring  us  that  sweet  happiness  we  claim. 


.01  THE  PRAYER  OF   THE   LYRE. 

XX. 

Ana  with  that  sacred  lore, 

The  shepherd  loved,  once  more 
Arouse  the  frolic  beat  of  the  hope-licensed  heart, — 

When  gathering  in  the  grove, 

Young  maidens  sung  of  love, 
And  no  cold  bigot  came  to  chide  the  minstrel's  art. 

XXI. 

Then  were  these  teachers  still — 

This  moon,  yon  quiet  hill. 
The  sea,  and  more  than  all,  the  swelling  breeze  that 
brings 

With  every  hour  like  this 

A  dream  of  life  and  bliss. 
With  healing  to  the  sad  heart  on  its  wings.  — 

XXII. 

Then  avouM  the  chaunted  strain. 
Of  the  old  Bard  again, 
Bring  cheerful  thoughts  once  more  around  the  even- 
ing fire ; 
Then  would  the  pure  and  young, 
Such  as  the  minstrel  sung. 
Once  more  rejoice  to  hear,  the  yriung  earth's  holy 
lyre. 


THE    YOUNG    3EV OTEF, 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  C  f  AliEN  PKEBC-JT. 


Agnes  Callender  returned  from  her  evening 
walk  with  a  glow  upon  her  cheek,  not  the  effect  oi 
exercise,  for  her  step  was  languid — but  of  some 
emotion,  proofs  of  which  were  still  visible  in  the 
tears  that  she  wiped  from  her  eyes,  as  she  entered 
her  fathers  door.  She  had  been  to  visit  the  grave 
of  her  mother,  who  died  two  months  before.  When 
that  event  happened,  she  felt  herself  suddenly  reduced 
to  an  appalling  emergency,  for  which  the  previous 
circumstances  of  her  life,  and,  as  she  thought,  her 
peculiar  character,  entirely  unfitted  her.  —  The  young 
vine,  torn  from  its  prop,  is  not  more  helpless ;  nor  the 
shoot,  severed  from  the  parent  stem,  more  effectually 
deprived  of  the  source  and  nutriment  of  its  young 
life.  To  live  without  my  mother  !  she  would  exclaim 
in  bitterness  of  spirit — O  that  i  should  have  been 
brought  to  this  • 

Being  naturally  timid,  sensitive,  and  reserved,  she 
was  of  course  distrustful  of  herself — and  her  mother 
was  the  only  friend  to  whom  she  ever  poured  out  a 
full  heart — the  only  one  on  whose  protection  and 
encouragement  she  constantly  relied,  or  with  whom 
she  shared  her  secrel;  soul. 


lOfi  THE   YOr  vG  DEVOTEE. 

Mr.  Callender,  although  what  is  commonly  called 
a  good-hearted  man  was  severe  in  his  judimients  of 
others  —  even  of  thoiie  who,  being  nearly  allied  to  him, 
might  suppose  themselves,  on  that  account,  entitled  to 
a  peculiar  degree  of  indulgence.  Having  no  tolera 
tion,  even  of  slight  imperfections,  he  was,  of  course, 
more  apt  to  blame,  than  to  praise  even  the  praise- 
worthy. He  was,  in  other  respects,  an  eccentric 
man,  a  term  which,  when  predicated  upon  the  master 
of  a  family,  implies  such  a  deviation  from  the  customs 
'  and  habits  that  ordinarily  make  part  of  the  domestic 
economy,  as  seriously  to  interfere  with  the  conve- 
nience and  comfort  of  all  its  members. 

Agnes  had  a  strong  sentiment  of  filial  duty,  in 
which  she  had  been  carefully  trained  by  her  mother — 
but  with  that,  there  mingled  another,  which  shoulc> 
be  forever  excluded  from  the  relation  of  parent  and 
child — it  was  fear.  Her  father  loved  and  respected 
her — but  he  little  knew  what  treasures  of  love, 
locked  up  in  her  heart,  might  have  been  at  his 
disposal,  had  not  his  manners  kept  her  at  such  a 
distance  from  him. 

At  the  time  I  have  spoken  of,  she  passed  hastily 
by  him,  as  he  stood  in  the  door,  and  was  going  up 
stairs. 

"  Here,  Agnes,"  said  he,  "  stay  a  moment.  I  am 
surprised  at  this  habit  you  have  fallen  into  of  late 
walks,  which  are  very  improper  for  a  young  ladj'. 
Besides,  do  you  know,  I  have  taken  my  tea  alone, 
and  that  stupid  Phebe  gave  me  green  tea  —  for  which 
I  shall  pass  a  sleepless  night  —  a  favor  I  must  thank 


THE    YOUNG   DEVOTEE  107 

you  for.  —  It  is  strange  that  young  people  wi  be 
always  about  something  else,  rather  than  their  own 
proper  duties  at  home." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Papa,"  replied  Agnes ;  "  I  gave 
Phebe  charge,  before  I  went  out,  to  go  and  see 
whether  Mr.  Stoddard  had  opened  a  new  chest  of 
black  tea — and  if  not,  to  get  some  more  of  the 
same  that  you  had  before.  —  I  did  not  think,  when  I 
went  away,  of  being  out  so  late." 

"Then  the  bread  is  poor  again — Miss  Agnes — 
too  close.  It  is  just  as  easy  to  have  fine  bread  as 
any  other,  and  it  is  a  pity  to  have  such  a  blessing  as 
good  bread  converted  into  a  curse  by  mere  want  of 
attention.  —  That's  all,  now — that's  the  whole  of  it — 
just  a  little  attention  would  save  all  this  trouble." 

Agnes  ventured  modestly  to  suggest,  that  Sally, 
the  cook,  was  much  more  practised  than  herself  in 
the  art  of  bread-making,  and  seldom  failed  of  entire 
success. 

"  But  it  is  a  house-keeper's  business  to  see  that 
every  thing  is  done  well — there  is  no  difficulty  about 
it — none  at  all." — 

"  Papa,  shall  I  read  to  you  now,"  said  Agnes, 
wishing  to  change  the  subject. — 

"  Yes,  child,  my  eyes  are  unusually  weak  to-night, 
and  there  is  an  article  upon  the  tariff  in  that  news- 
paper, which  I  should  like  to  hear  rery  much." 

This  duty  poor  Agnes  performed  with  exemplary 
patience.  Her  manner  of  reading  was  one  thinn 
with  which  he  seldom  found  fault. 

When  she  bid  finished   he  thanked  ner,    savin^. 


108  THE    VOL' NO    DEVOTEE. 

that,  in  his  opinion,  there  were  very  few  young 
women  of  her  age,  who  would  have  sense  enough  to 
read,  ijpon  such  subjects,  and  attend  to  them  with  the 
interest  which  she  manifested.  She  could  not  dis- 
claim the  unmerited  praise;  because,  by  so  doing^ 
she  must  necessarily  have  revealed  to  her  father,  a 
fact  which  she  preferred  carefully  to  conceal  —  viz., 
that  she  had  no  share  in  the  pleasure,  which  she  thus 
afforded  him. 

Agnes  was  one  of  those  persons  who  do  every 
thing  well  from  principle.  —  She  devoted  herself  to 
the  difficult  and  responsible  duties,  which  devolved 
upon  her  in  consequence  of  her  mother's  death,  with 
untiring  zeal  and  assiduity — and  to  have  satisfied  her 
father  would  have  been  to  her  a  sufficient  reward. — 
But  since  the  most  trifling  deficiency,  omJssioit 
irregularity,  or  imperfection,  in  the  details  of  her 
domestic  arrangements,  escaped  neither  his  obserA'a- 
tion  nor  his  censure — and  ho  rarely  bestowed  any 
commendation  —  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  suspect, 
what  was  nevertheless  true  —  that,  in  his  secret  heart, 
he  regarded  her  as  one  of  the  best  daughters,  and 
most  accomplished  house-keepers,  that  a  widowed 
father  was  ever  blessed  with.  Many  a  time  has  she 
thought  within  herself — "Oh,  if  I  could  1  ear  again 
my  mother's  sweet  approving  tone!"  and  wept,  that 
it  was  for  ever  silenced. 

A  sweet  solace  always  awaited  Agnes  at  the  close 
of  the  day,  which  refreshed  her  after  it's  wearying 
cp.res,  and  imparted  to  her  slumber  a  tranquillity  ol 
^hich  it  was  rarely  deprived.    She  had  a  little  sister, 


THE    YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  100 

Lucy,  only  four  years  of  age,  who  was  her  bedfellow 
and  who,  without  giving  any  other  symptom  ol 
consciousness,  would  always  kiss  Agnes,  seeking  her 
lips  as  she  laid  do\Mi  by  her  side,  and  place  her 
hand  too  on  Agnes'  cheek,  pressed  closely  to  hers.  — 
Agnes  assumed  the  entire  charge  of  this  child  from 
the  moment  of  her  mother's  death  —  this  was  the  one 
indulgence — the  chief  pleasure  of  her  life. 

Mr.  Callender  had  a  degree  of  sensitiveness  upon 
the  subject  of  order  and  neatness,  which  Doctor  Rush 
wo\  Id  probably  have  denominated  a  species  of 
insanity.  It  was  not  uncommon  for  him  to  throv/ 
out  upon  the  floor,  and  consign  anew  to  the  wash-tub, 
a  whole  drawer-full  of  shirts  and  cravats,  on  account 
of  a  wrinkle  in  one,  a  spot  upon  another,  a  slight 
shade  of  yellov/  on  a  third,  or  the  wrong  folding, of 
a  fourth.  An  accidental  soil  upon  the  table-clotn 
would  deprive  all  others  at  the  table,  if  not  himself, 
of  the  accustomed  meal;  — and  pet  as  she  was,  even 
with  him,  little  Lucy  was  occasionally  banished  from 
the  parlor  for  a  day,  because  her  frock  slipped  off  at 
the  shoulder. 

One  morning  he  took  from  a  bureau,  to  which  he 
had  access,  some  articles  of  dress  that  had  belonged 
to  his  wife,  which  he  intended  to  distribute  among 
her  friends.  —  After  arranging  thern  upon  the  btid, 
he  called  in  Agnes  to  assist  hirn  in  their  appropria- 
tion. Not  being  at  all  aware  of  the  reason  of  the 
summons,  she  obeyed  it  with  her  usual  alacruy.  Her 
uniform  "Yes,  Papa,"  was  heard  in  responi-.o,  and 
directly  she  was  in  his  rooi  . 
to 


ilO  THE    YOUNG    DEAOTEE. 

Her  light  step  was  suddenly  arrested  as  her  eye 
fell  upon  the  gai  nents  spread  before  her — and,  then, 
by  an  irresistibL*.  impulse,  sh»  threw  herself  at  full 
length  upon  the  bed,  as  if  to  embrace  the  sacred 
relics,  and  burst  in^o  tears. 

"Whj^  my  daughter,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Callcnder,  in 
manifest  horror  —  "do  you  not  see  what  mischief  you 
are  doing?     Get  up,  directly." 

She  arose  instantly  —  but  her  agitation  increased, 
her  lips  trembled,  her  sobbing  became  convulsive, 
and  as  she  sank  into  a  chair,  her  knees  smote 
together.  Mr.  Callender  had  never  witnessed  any 
thino-  of  the  kind  in  her  before  —  he  became  alarmed, 
and  rang  violently  for  assistance.  He  then  took  her 
up  and  laid  her  gently  on  the  same  bed  from  which 
he  had  so  rudely  ejected  her  —  loosened  her  clothes — «■ 
administered  restoratives-^ and  when  he  found  her, 
by  degrees,  regaining  her  composure,  he  sat  down 
by  her  side,  and  soothingly  stroked  back  the  hair 
which  had  fallen  over  her  face. 

When  Agnes  looked  up  in  grateful  recognition  of 
this  kindness,  and  perceived  that  tears  were  stream- 
incf  down  his  cheeks — "she  drew  him  down  to  her 
and  kissed  him.  From  that  moment  much  of  the  re- 
serve, which  she  had  huherto  felt  towards  him,  melted 
away,  and  there  was  a  softening  of  his  maimers  to- 
wards her  —  a  careful  abstaining  froi  i  what  niiglit 
wound  or  grieve  her,  for  which  she  lifted  up  her  heart 
to  God  in  fervent  gratitude. 

Lit;le  Lucy  was  the  pet  lamb  —  the  darling  of  the 
whoU    family — and   notwithstanding  the  occasionaJ 


THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  HI 

rebuffs  which  she  receh^ed  from  her  father — she  was 
so  much  indulged  and  caressed  by  him — as  to  regard 
him  without  any  of  the  fear  that  he  usually  inspired. 
She  was  more  free  than  any  one  else  in  her  inter- 
course with  him,  and  this  very  circumstance,  without 
his  being  aware  of  it,  increased  liis  fondness  for  her  — 
and  her  influence  over  him  —  an  influence  often  ex- 
ercised in  softening  Agnes'  grievances. 

Mr.  Callender  was  fond  of  society,  and  practised 
unbounded  hospitality.  The  death  of  his  wife  check- 
ed, for  a  time,  his  habits  in  this  respect  —  and  Agnes 
was  not  called  upon  for  any  extraordinary  exercise  o. 
her  household  skill,  until  she  had  had  the  experience 
of  some  months  in  perfecting  it.  Then,  when  some 
public  occasion  was  expected  to  draw  a  large  con- 
course of  strangers  to  the  town — her  father  sio-nified 
to  her  that  on  a  certain  day  she  must  provide  a  dinner 
for  some  ten  or  twelve  gentlemen.  This  was  an 
event  in  her  life  which  filled  her  with  solicitude  —  for 
besides  the  responsibility  which  she  felt  in  regard  to 
the  dinner  —  the  idea  of  presiding  over  it  at  table,  was 
very  formidable. 

The  efforts  to  please  her  father,  however,  proved 
successful.  The  servants  were  all  exceedingly  at- 
tached to  her,  and  for  her  sake,  rather  than  his,  did 
their  best  on  the  occasion.  Nothing  was  too  much  or 
too  little  done — there  were  no  oily  gravies  —  every 
dish  was  very  nicely  served  up  —  not  a  knife  or  fork 
was  dropped  or  rattled  by  the  waiters  —  not  a  particle 
of  any  thing  spilled.  The  pastry  was  exquisitely 
white  and  flaky — the  sweetmeats  and  jellies  admiia 


112  THE    YOUNG    DEVOTEE 

ble — the  apples  beautifully  polished — th  ?  nuts  crack- 
ed in  the  most  approved  manner — the  order  of  the 
entertainment,  too,  was  perfect;  — in  short,  every  thmg 
was  right,  and  Mr.  Callender  felt  proud  and  gratified. 

Agnes  began  to  breathe  more  freely  in  saying  tc 
herself,  "It's  almost  over' — when  a  toast  was  pro- 
posed, which  her  father  sc^id  must  be  pledged  in  his 
last  remaining  bottle  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  wine,  whicl 
he  valued  particularly. 

As  he  raised  the  glass  to'  his  lips,  Agnes,  whose 
eye  met  his,  saw  that  something  was  wrong.  "  How's 
this,  my  daughter?"  said  he  somewhat  impatiently  — 
"the  wine  is  not  pure  —  here's  some  mistake." 

The  poor  girl  felt  her  cheeks  crimson  all  over,  at 
an  appeal  which  drew  upcn  her  the  attention  of  every 
one  present.  She  frankly  owned,  however,  that  the 
bottle  not  being  quite  full,  she  had  supplied  the  defi- 
ciency from  another,  whose  contents  were  exactly  si 
milar  in  color  and  appearance. 

"  I  did  not  know^  that  you  were  such  a  novice, 
child"  —  he  replied. 

Mr.  Callender  was  particularly  sensitive  upon  the 
subject  of  his  wines,  and  Agnes  knew  that  this  single 
mistake  was  sufficient  to  mar,  in  his  eyes,  the  whole 
entertainment. 

One  of  the  gentlemen  present,  wishing  to  relieve 
her  evident  embarrassment,  politely  remarked,  that 
some  accident  of  the  kind  was  almost  necessary  to 
convince  them  that  there  had  not  been  magic  in  the 
preparation  of  such  an  erivertainnient  by  so  young  a 
housekeeper. 


THE   YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  liS 

Lucy  had  been  introduced  just  as  this  unlucky 
mistake  was  detected.  She  went  up  to  her  f'atlier,  and 
in  the  eagerness  to  get  his  attention,  and  beg  hina  not  to 
make  ''sister  blush,"  she  jostled  his  arm,  and  caused 
him  to  upset  his  glass  ^ — "O  never  mind,  Father," 
said  she,  "  you  will  have  less  to  drink,  now,  of  that 
bad  wine.  But  let  me  taste,  and  see  if  it  really  is 
spoiled." 

She  put  the  glass  to  her  lips,  and  smacked  them. 
"  Why,  it  is  very  good,  1  am  sure,  Father ;  I  don't 
believe  sister  could  spoil  any  thing  if  she  should  try." 

"Unless  it  be  you,  perhaps,  Lucy." 

Her  vivacity  and  fondness  for  her  sister,  excited  a 
general  smile,  whose  contagion  infected  Mr.  Callender 
himself  Her  voice  was  to  him  what  the  harp  of 
David  was  lo  the  monarch  of  Israel. 

As  Lu  :y  passed  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  to  join 
Agnes,  she  was  arrested  by  a  young  gentleman  who 
sat  next  her,  and  who,  Agnes  told  her,  was  Mr. 
Linwood.     He  took  her  into  his  lap  and  kissed  her. 

"  Has  not  my  sister  given  you  a  nice  dinner?"  — 
said  she  —  "  I  helped  some — I  helped  rub  the  apples  " 

"And  who  rubbed  and  polished  your  cheeks?" 

"  O,  sister  does  that  —  and  this  morning,  when  I 
held  some  of  the  red  apples  to  my  cheeks  to  see  which 
were  the  prettiest,  she  said  she  liked  my  cheeks  the 
best,  a  great  deal.  Isn't  that  queer  ?  I  guess  it  is 
because  she  can  kiss  them." 

"Kiss  them — can't  she  1  iss  an   apple's   cheeks 
too?" 

10* 


tU  THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE 

"  Kiss  an  apple's  ch^-^ks !  apples  were  not  made  to 
kiss." 

"  Why  not  ?  they  are  very  pretty." 

"But  they  don't  know  any  thing  —  they  don't  love 
you." 

"  But  you  love  them." 

"Oh,  poh!  that's  not  her  kind  of  love  —  the  way 
1  love  an  apple,  is  not  the  way  I  love  sister." 

Agnes'  desire  to  stop  Lucy's  loquacity,  determined 
her  no  longer  to  delay  what  she  had  been  for  some 
time  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  —  the  formidable 
retreat  from  table.  She  took  Lucy  by  the  hand  and 
rose  to  depart.  Mr.  Linwood,  seeing  her  extreme 
embarrassment,  thought  to  relieve  it  by  offering  his 
arm  to  conduct  her  to  the  door.  He  half  rose  —  then 
hesitated  —  as  if  doubtful  whether  he  might  not 
increase  rather  than  relieve  it — but  at  length  escorted 
her. 

It  was  then  that  she  perceived  the  cause  of  his 
hesitation  in  the  mal-formation  of  one  of  his  feet;  but 
this  discovery  did  not  destroy  the  agreeable  impres- 
sion she  had  previously  received  from,  his  fine  coun- 
tenance, pleasing  manners,  and  evident  intelligence ; 
for,  in  spite  of  the  pre-occupation  of  her  mind,  he  had, 
during  dinner,  drawn  her  into  conversation. 

Mr.  Linwood  was  a  young  man  who  had  recently 
brought  letters  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Callonder  —  for 
although  the  son  of  an  old  friend  and  class-mate  —  his 
father's  death,  which  occurred  when  he  was  quite 
young,  had  suspended  all  intercourse  between  the 
families. 


THE    yOUNG    bEVOTEE.  lift 

Nature,  in  bestowing  upon  him  the  richest  enoow- 
rnents  of  mind,  and  a  good  degree  of  personal  beauty, 
had  denied  him  a  perfect  physical  confornjation. 

When  such  a  misfortune  is  inflicted  upon  a  persaa 
whose  nature  is  sensitive  —  it  modifies,  in  some  way, 
his  character.  It  probably  made  Lord  Byron  a 
misanthrope.  Henry  Linwood,  on  the  contrary,  felt 
for  all  his  race  a  warm  and  kindly  sympathy,  \^hich 
he  believed  could  never  be  fully  extended  towards 
him.  This  idea  made  him  neither  sour  nor  melan- 
choly, but  it  led  him  to  regard  himself  as,  in  some 
respects,  an  isolated  being — and  produced  a  subdued 
tone  of  feeling  incompatible  with  any  elation  of  spirits 
— though  he  had  too  much  of  true  Christian  philo- 
sophy ever  to  repine.  It  was  a  perpetual  trial, 
attended,  in  his  case,  with  those  purifying  effects 
which  rare  and  occasional  afflictions  are  sometimes 
observed  to  produce  upon  those  who  are  capable  of 
deriving  "  sweet  uses  from  adversity." 

■  Having  inherited  a  patrimony  sufficient  to  place 
him  above  the  necessity  of  consulting  his  pecuniary 
interests  rather  than  his  tastes,  he  determined,  after 
completing  the  course  and  term  of  study  necessary  to 
invest  him  with  the  prerogatives  of  a  professional 
man,  to  establish  himself  in  the  country.  He  was  a 
passionate  lover  of  nature,  and  had  a  more  intimate 
communion  with  her,  perhaps,  from  regarding  him- 
self as,  in  some  aegree,  severed  from  man's  fellowship. 
It  is,  too,  in  the  circumscribed  society  of  a  country 
village,    that  exists   the   simplest   state    of  manners 

rigistent  with  refinement — and  there  are  no  artifi- 


116  THE   YOUNG    DEVOTEE. 

cial  observances  to  repress  the  full  glow  of  the  heart, 
that  he  fancied  he  should  bring  himself  into  nearer 
relation  with  those  among  whom  he  dwelt. 

He  became,  of  couTse,  a  frequent  visiter  at  Mr.  Cal- 
lender's,  who  cultivated  his  acquaintance,  not  onljf  for 
his  father's  sake,  but  because  he  found  him  a  most 
delightful  acquisition  to  his  somewhat  limited  circle. 
Agnes,  insti^'ud  of  being  less  disposed  to  make  herselt 
agreeable  to  him  on  account  of  his  personal  blemish, 
was  stimulated  by  a  feeling  of  compassion,  to  do  all  in 
her  power  towards  his  entertainment,  whenever  he 
was  witli  them.  She  was  thus  induced,  when  perhaps 
every  other  motive  would  have  failed,  to  throw  aside 
her  usual  reserve,  and  be,  Avhat  some  of  her  friends 
would  have  pronounced  impossible,  under  any  cir- 
cum>tance.s,  positively  sociable.  Virtuous  effort  in 
another's  bel::^lf  always  brings  a  reward — and  so  it 
proved  in  her  case.  Her  improvement  in  that  most 
desirable  art,  the  art  of  conversation,  was  rapid  and 
striking. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  Agnes'  character  gained  daily 
fresh  strength.  There  'S  nothing  like  the  effect  of 
circumstances  which  impose  upon  young  persons  high 
and  responsible  duties,  in  developing  and  elevating' 
the  character.  She  gradually  acquired  confidence  in 
herself,  which  relieved  her  of  much  of  ihe  suffering 
and  embarrassment  to  which  she  had  previously  been 
subjected.  By  degrees,  ^he  obtained  an  ascendency 
over  her  father's  mind  ;  —  she  was  not  unfreqnently  his 
coimsellor,  —  and  he  felt  a  respect  fur  her  which  oflen 
checked  his  impatience.    She  even  sometimes  ventured 


THE    YOUNG    DSr.OTEE.  IJa 

gently  to  suggest  that  he  was  not  quite  reasonable,  and 
found  him  docile  to  reproof.  On  one  occasion,  when 
he  left  home,  quite  suddenly,  for  a  journey  which 
required  considerable  preparation,  and  she  was  oblig 
ed  to  pack  his  trunk  in  the  least  possible  time,  she 
accidentally  left  out  a  single  article  of  no  great  import- 
ance. He  did  not  fail,  upon  his  return,  to  mention 
this  omission.  "  Why,  Papa,"  said  she,  "  if  that  was 
the  only  thing  you  missed,  I  wonder  you  do  not 
rather  commend  me,  considering  how  you  hurried 
me." 
.    "  True,  my  daughter,  you  are  right." 

There  was  much  speculation  among  Agnes'  ac 
quaintance  upon  the  wisdom  of  her  course.  If  she ' 
were  not  half  as  devoted  to  her  father,  was  the  general 
sentiment,  he  would  not  be  half  as  exacting.  Mr. 
Linwood,  who  being  a  constant  visiter  at  Mr.  Cal- 
lender's,  and  now  well  known  in  the  village,  Avas 
often  appealed  to  on  the  subject,  was  accustomed  to 
reply — that  in  his  opinion  the  best  rule,  and  one 
which  he  believed  governed  Miss  Callender  in  all 
things,  was  to  perform  in  the  most  thorough  and 
devoted  manner  whatever  duties  arose  out  of  one's 
peculiar  station. 

There  are  few  topics  of  conversation  in  a  village -— 
and  of  course  Mr.  Linwood  was  frequently  discussed. 
The  young  ladies  thought  him  agreeable  and  gentle- 
manly, and  admitted  that  but  for  his  deformity — he 
would  be  a  great  favorite. 

"But  for  his  deformity,"  Agnes  would  sometimes 
repeat  to   herself— "how  can  that  have  any  other 


118  THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

effect,  than  to  heighten  the  interest  excited  1  y  his  fine 
character,  and  gifted  mind  ?" 

Yet  Agnes  was  not  in  love,  nor  did  she  belong  to 
the  class  of  young  ladies  most  apt  to  fall  in  love.  Life 
to  her  had  important  duties  —  noble  aims.  Devoted 
to  her  father  and  to  Lucy — and  pursuing,  diligently, 
the  course  of  literary  culture  and  self-improvement 
commenced  under  the  auspices  of  her  mother,  she  had 
not  the  need,  Avhich  girls  of  seventeen  sometimes  feel, 
of  love,  as  a  pastime,  to  relieve  "her  from  the  ennui  ol 
a  vacant  mind. 

Had  such  a  sentiment  inspired  her  in  the  com- 
mencement of  her  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Linwood. 
she  never  would  have  so  far  overcome  her  natural 
reserve  in  her  intercourse  with  him  —  nor  would  he 
have  penetrated  the  veil  sufficiently  to  discover  what 
it  concealed. 

He  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  sex,  but  considered 
himself  as  doomed  to  celibacy — and  this  he  thought 
the  severest  privation  connected  with  his  peculiar 
misfortune.  When  he  perceived  that  Agnes  appeared 
more  animated  and  agreeabh'  in  his  society  than  in 
any  other,  —  when  he  found  her,  as  olten  happened, 
refusing  to  dance  in  their  little  village  parties  that  she 
might  be  at  liberty  to  chat  with  him,  while  all  the  rest 
were  engaged  in  the  favorite  anniseinent  of  youth  — 
he  did  not  think  of  referring  her  kindness  to  any  other 
than  the  true  cause,  and  gratitude  and  admirat  on  were 
the  (et'lings  which  it  inspired. 

'=  1  declare,"  said  Mr.  Callender,  as  he  ynine  in 
one  day  to  dinner,  "a  few  siu-h    fiiir   CcllDns  as  lli.u 


THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  119 

Lin  wood,  would  create  a  new  state  of  things  in  a 
country  village  like  this.     I  met  him  this  morning, 
with  a  Avhole  troop  of  boys  at  his  heels,  going  in  search 
of  stones,  insects,  flowers  any  thing  they  can  find  for 
his  cabinets,  or  his  herbarium.     There  is  not  one  oi 
them  who  would  noi  rather  spend  a  holiday  in  his 
service  than  in  any  other  manner.    By  way  of  reward, 
he  calls  them  all  into  his  office  every  now  and  then 
and  entertains  them  with  experiments,  or  in  familiar 
lectures.    They  will  become  quite  a  set  of  philosophers. 
In  two   years   time   they  will  know  the  name  and 
history  of  every  specimen  belonging  to  three  depart- 
ments of  natural  history — that  can  be  found  in  this 
vicinity.     Nature  did  well  to  disqualify  such  a  man 
for  marriage,  that  he  might  devote  himself  to  his  race." 
"  But  how  is  it,  that  his  profession  does  not  absorb 
him !      I  have  heard  the  law  termed  -^  mistress  who 
would  tolerate  no  rival." 

"  I  don't  know  —  he  must  have  uncommon  industry. 
When  I  found  that  his  new  office  was  to  be  divided 
into  two  apartments  —  one  properly  his  office,  and  the 
other  fitted  up  as  a  mineralogical  and  entomological 
cabinet,  and  furnished  too,  with  some  chemical  appa- 
ratus, I  thought  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  that 
he  should  ever  become  distinguished  in  his  profes- 
sion— and  yet  he  is  rising  very  fast. 

"  Sister,"  said  Lucy,  as  she  finished  her  afternoon 
lessons,  "  there  is  one  reason  why  I  should  rathei  go 
to  the  district  school  than  to  yours,  because,  then,  you 
know,  Mr.  Liuwood  might  perhaps  take  me,  with  the 
other  children    to  get  specimens  for  his  cabinets.     I 


will  just  g-o  m\  in  llic  garden,  and  see  if  I  can't  find 
a  pretty  bug  for  liim  now." 

Just  as  she  was  returning  with  that  familiar  and 
favorite  acquaintance  of  all  children,  a  lady-bird,  in 
her  hand,  Mr.  Linwood  came  in.  "01  am  glad  to 
see  you,"  she  exclaimed  —  "I  have  just  found  some* 
thing  for  your  cabinet — here  it  is — my  favorite  little 
lady-bird.  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  have 
something  there  that  you  could  call  lady." 

"  Thank  you,  Lucy,  your  lady  shall  be  installed 
there  with  becoming  honors." 

"  Ml/  lady  —  no,  not  vip  lady  —  for  ot?/  lady  is  sister 
-she  is  my  mother,  and  my  nurse,  and  my  sister, 
and  my  teacher,  and  my  governess,  and  besides  all 
these,  she's  my  lady  —  she's  my  every  thing." 

"But  I  w^as  talking  about  the  lady-bird,"  said  Lin- 
wood, not  appearing  to  perceive  Agnes'  embarrass- 
ment. "  I  never  expect  to  have  any  other  lady  in  my 
cabinet," — and  he  sighed. 

"And  why  not?  Don't  you  like  ladies?  —  would 
not  you  like  to  have  a  wife  ?" 

"  O  yes,  I  should  like  very  well  to  have  a  wife,  but 
no  lady  would  like  a  limping  husband,  you  know." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Agnes  had  ever  heard 
him  allude  to  himself  in  this  way,  —  and  she  felt 
distressed  to  a  degree  that  made  her  almost  gasp  for 
breath.  She  was  relieved,  however,  by  the  entrance 
of  her  father,  bringing  a  book  which  Linwood  had 
ca  led  to  borrow,  and,  upon  receiving  which,  he 
immediately  took  his  leave. 

His  remark  aw\Tkenei'  a  new  train  of  reflection   in 


THE    Y  n  I'  N  G    0  E  ^  O  T  E  E  .  12l 

Agnes'  mind.     She  had  never  before  suspected  the 
existence  of  such  a  feeling  in  his. 

That  same  evening  they  met  again  in  a  little  party. 
Among  other  amusements,  proposed  in  the  evening, 
was  that  of  impromptu  mottoes.  There  were  one  or 
two  married  ladies  present,  known  to  be  gifted  with 
rhyming  powers.  The  mottoes  were  rolled  up,  and 
thrown  as  fast  as  they  were  produced  into  a  box.  A 
person  was  appointed  to  read  them,  and  they  were 
appropriated  by  vote.  Among  others,  there  appeared 
the  following:  — 

"For  her,  who,  as  a  miser's  chest, 
With  jealous  care,  locks  up  her  breast; 
Find  but  the  key,  the  sterling  gold 
Is  inexhaustible  —  untold." 

This  was  given  by  acclamation  to  Agnes,  who, 
blushing,  slipped  it  inside  of  her  glove. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  had  so  little  0/ 
girlish  nature,  as  not  to  examine  and  read  it  over 
after  she  returned  home.  At  the  first  glance  she 
recognized  the  hand-writing  of  Linwood,  and  a  disin- 
terested observer  would  have  vmderstood,  better  than 
she  did,  the  feeling  that  led  her  carefully  to  lock  it 
up  in  her  work-box. 

"  What  is  that  little  bit  of  paper  you  keep  so  care- 
fully, and  will  never  let  me  touch  ?"  said  Lucy  one 
day,  to  whom  it  was  something  new  to  have  her 
rummaging  privilege  curtailed. 

"  Nothing  but  a  motto  which  I  brought  home  from 
tMrs.  Elmwood's  party." 

"  But  what  makes  you  so  choice  of  it  ?" 
a 


J22  THE   YOUNG    DEVOTEE 

"  Because  it  is  a  very  pretty  motto,"  and  Lricy'? 
curiosity  was  allayed. 

O  the  fatality  which  almost  inevitably  attends  a 
secret !  A  few  days  after,  when  Linwood  was 
showing  to  Lucy,  who  sat  on  his  lap,  an  exquisite 
little  print,  which  he  would  not  suffer  her  to  touch 
with  her  fingers  ;  she  exclaimed,  "  Why,  you  ar^^  as 
choice  of  this  picture  as  sister  is  of  the  motto  which 
she  got  at  Mrs.  Elmwood's  party." 

A  flush  of  pleasure  sufTused  the  face  of  Linwood. 
Had  he  ventured  to  look  at  poor  Agnes,  he  would 
have  pitied  her  notwithstanding.  Lucy -was  now 
suffered  to  handle  the  print  as  she  pleased;  nor  was 
her  pricking  all  round  it,  to  make  what  she  called  a 
pretty  border  for  it,  observed  by  either  oT  her  com- 
panions. 

Henceforth  life  was  a  new  existence  to  Henry 
Linwood.  It  was  possible  that,  in  spite  of  all,  Agnes 
Callender  might  regard  him  with  a  sentiment  capable 
of  being  cultivated  into  a  permanent  attachnient. 
Her  now  altered  and  embarrassed  manner  tended  to 
confirm  liis  hopes ;  yet  it  was  a  long  time  before  he 
ventured  to  presume  upon  them,  and  just  as  he  had 
determined  to  cast  his  all  of  lio]ie  and  happiness  upon 
a  single  die,  something  occurred  which  induced  him 
to  delay  the  important  step. 

Since  her  mother's  death,  Agnes  'eceived  repeated 
invitations  from  a  friend  of  hers,  Mrs.  Scott,  who 
resided  in  Boslon,  to  pass  some  n  onths  with  her, 
accompanied  by  Lucy;  but  ootwithstanding  that  lady's 
'irguments,  in  regard  to  the  .mportanoe  of  ar  occ  isiona' 


THE    YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  Sfl 

residence  in  toA\Ta  to  a  country  girl,  and  the  various 
attractions  of  such  a  visit,  which  she  failed  not  to  set 
forth  in  the  most  glowing  colors,  Agnes  preferred 
remaining  at  home.  Now,  however,  Mr.  Callender, 
who  had  been  for  sc  ne  time  subject  to  a  severe 
asthma,  having  determined  to  pass  the  winter  in  a 
milder  climate,  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Scott's 
invitation  to  his  children  should  be  accepted. 

Linwood  did  not  hasten,  as  others  perhaps  would 
have  done  in  like  circumstances,  to  secure  his  prize, 
if  possible,  from  the  threatened  danger  of  rival  com- 
petitors. He  attributed  the  interest  with  which  he 
believed,  or  rather  hoped,  to  have  inspired  Agnes,  in 
part  to  compassion ;  and  with  his  love  there  mingled 
a  sentiment  of  gratitude,  which  led  him  magnani- 
mously to  resolve  that  he  would  not  take  selfish 
advantage  of  any  power  which  he  might  thus  have 
acquired  over  her  affections.  She  had  seen  but  few 
young  men,  and  she  had  been  almost  exclusively 
limited  to  the  circumscribed  society  of  a  country 
villa o-e.  In  a  more  enlarged  intercourse  v.'ith  the 
world,  she  might  discover  that  she  iiad  bestowed  her 
preference  prematurely,  and,  introduced  into  a  state 
of  society  where  greater  importance  is  attached  to 
circumstances,  merely  adventitious,  she  miglit  find 
that  she  had  too  much  disregarded  the  obstacle,  for 
such  it  would  commonly  be  considered,  to  a  union 
with  him. 

We  have  never  spoken  of  our  neroine's  personal 
appearance,  nor  did  the  omission  occur  to  us,  until 
about  to  introduce  her  -nto  town  life,  we  were  remind 


iM  IIIE    YCtlNf;    DEVOTEE. 

ud  that  It  is  regarded  as  an  item  of  great  inipoi  ai,ce 
when  a  young  lady,  in  technxal  language,  makei  hei 
debut.  Though  educated  almost  excmsively  in  the 
country,  she  had  a  natural  grace  and  propriety  about 
her — an  essentially  lady-like  air,  which  stamps  the 
true  gentlewoman.  She  was  tall  and  well-formed ; 
her  eye,  hair  and  complexion,  were  beautiful ;  and 
the  sweetness  and  intelligence  of  her  face  made  you 
forget  that  her  features  were  not  perfectly  regular. 
She  had,  besides,  a  very  nice  taste  in  dress,  as  unerr- 
ing as  instinct  itself,  which  led  her  to  array  herself 
always  becomingly.  Her  style  of  dress  was  suited 
to  her  character  —  a  style  of  simple  elegance. 

The  incidents  ot  a  young  lady's  first  visit  to  town, 
are  usually  of  a  monotonous  character,  that  is,  they 
belong  to  a  single  class.  Mrs.  Scott  was  a  woman 
of  fashion,  very  much  in  society ;  and,  persuaded 
that  this  was  the  most  important  winter  of  her  young 
friend's  life,  determined  that  she  should  improve  it 
to  the  utmost,  in  a  continual  round  of  gay  amuse- 
ments. Occasionally,  and  for  a  limited  period,  such 
a  mode  of  life  has  charms  for  most  young  persons, 
whatever  may  be  their  peculiar  tastes  or  genera! 
habits.  Agnes  felt  herself  excited  by  it,  but  still 
])reserved  her  old  habit  of  a  systematic  distribiition 
of  her  time,  and  kept  up,  in  some  degree,  her  devo- 
tion to  Lucy.  She  had  a  fine  talent  for  music,  wliich 
slic  hiid  already  cultivated  successfully,  with  very 
little  iiistrnction  ;  and  in  the  absence  of  more  serious 
occMipations,  she  ;leteriuined  to  make  the  most  nl  liei 
present  oppnrtntr  y  for  no(|u:'riiig  thai  accomplishmeni 


THE    YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  .25 

inore  perfectly  —  how  far  Linwood's  fondness  for 
sweet  sound  stimulated  her  to  persevere,  in  spite  of 
obstacles  neither  few  nor  small,  in  devoting  two 
hours  every  day  to  the  piano,  we  cannot  say  — then 
one  hour  of  each  day  was  given  to  Ijucy,  in  examin- 
ing the  progress  she  had  made  at  her  school  during 
the  day,  and  assisting  her  in  the  next  day's  lessons. 

Mrs.  Scott  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  success  of  her 
young  iHend.  She  received  a  degree  of  admiration 
sufficient  to  have  invested  her  with  the  rank  and 
distinction  of  a  belle,  had  it  not  been  that  there  was 
something  in  her  general  air  and  manner,  which 
seemed  decidedly  to  disclaim  and  reject  all  such 
pretensions.  The  SAveet  Lily  of  the  Valley  could 
as  soon  be  suspected  of  aspiring  to  reach  the  height, 
and  emulate*  the  showy  coloring  of  the  tulip,  in 
whose  neighborhood  it  chanced  to  groAV. 

Among  other  admirers  of  Agnes,  was  Frank 
Frazier,  a  nephew  of  Mr.  Scott,  a  young  man  of 
fortune  and  accomplishment,  and  particularly  distin- 
guished for  his  personal  attractions.  Being  on  a 
footing  of  intimacy  at  his  uncle's,  he  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  Agnes  in  points  of  view,  divested 
of  that  enchantment  which  distance  lends,  and  found 
r.hat  her  charms  increased  just  in  proportion  as  he 
approached  her  more  nearly.  In  short,  he  fell  in 
love,  and  was  the  most  devoted  of  her  train. 

Mrs.  Scott  was  delighted,  for  she  nad  no  doubt  of 
the  result  of  his  suit ;  and  flattered  herself  that,  in 
technical  phrase,  she  had  made  the  match ;  a  merit 
which  man^-  of  her  sex,  in  like  circumstances,  have 


126  THE    YOUNG   DRVOTEE. 

been  eager  to  claim,  without  considering  what  fear- 
ful responsibuily  such  an  interference  must  ever 
involve. 

Meanwhile,  Linwood  who  had  been  elected  to 
represent  the  village  of in  the  state  legis- 
lature, arrived  in  Boston.  Having  called  when 
Agnes  was  out,  he  missed  seeing  her  until  they  met 
at  a  brilliant  party  given  by  Mrs.  Frazier.  Though 
he  had  been  in  town  but  a  single  day,  the  report, 
already  current,  of  Agnes'  engagement,  did  not  fail 
to  reach  his  ears  through  a  young  lady  of  his 
acquaintance  who  often  met  her  in  society ;  and 
though  he  did  not  implicitly  believe  it,  he  felt  that  it 
was  but  too  p'obab!(\ 

He  was  impatient  to  see  her,  and  judge  for  himself; 
and  when  his  eye  first  fell  upon  her,  she  was  stand- 
ing np  in  a  dance  with  her  reputed  lover  by 
her  side. 

Struck  Avith  his  elegant  appearance,  and  mistaking 
the  flush  and  the  glow,  which  in  Agne.s  were  merely 
the  effect  of  the  exhilarating  exercise,  for  the  anima- 
tion of  joy  and  hope,  he  believed  that  he  saw  with 
his  own  eyes,  a  confirmation  of  the  report  which  had 
so  much  agitated  him. 

"  How  deadly  pale  you  are,  Linwood,"  exclaimed 
a  young  man  of  his  acquaintance,  who  observed  his 
sudden  change  of  countenance.  "  It  must  be  the 
fume  of  these  vile  lamps  that  affects  you  so  disacree- 
ably." 

At  that  moment  the  dance  broke  up,  and  it  chanced 
chat   Agnes'    partner  conducted   her   to  a  seal   near 


THE    Y  O  TJ  N  (J    D  E  V  O  T  E  E  .  I"7 

■.vliicli  Linwood  stood.  Glowing  as  her  cheek  already 
was,  a  deeper  hue  suffused  it  as  they  exchanged  a 
joyful  recognition. 

The  diamond  is  the  common  illustration  of  a  bright 
eye.  That  of  Agnes  always  reminded  me  of  the 
unrivalled  gem,  whenever  any  thing  occurred  that 
gave  her  peculiar  pleasure.  Then  it  flashed,  and 
shot  a  brilliant  gleam,  such  as  the  diamond  emits 
when  a  bright  ray  of  light  kindles  its  magic  blaze.. 
And  thus  it  flashed  as  it  encountered  that  of  Litt- 
wood ;  but  he  thought  it  was  only  natural  that  she 
should  be  excited  by  seeing,  after  such  an  unwonted 
absence  from  home,  one  who  was  associated  with  ail 
its  cherished  remembrances.  Her  animated  conver- 
sation connected  with  those  remembrances,  occupied 
them  until  supper  was  announced,  when  Frank 
offered  her  his  arm,  and  escorted  her  to  the  table. 

"  Who  is  that  unfortunate  piece  of  deformity,"'  he 
asked,  "  upon  whom  your  smiles  are  so  readily 
bestowed  ?"  and  looking  down  with  complacency 
upon  his  own  finely  turned  leg,  he  added,  "  they 
should  be  reserved  for  those  to  whom  nature  has  not 
denied  a  claim  to  them." 

"  He  is  a  young  man,"  replied  Agnes,  "  from  whom 
nature,  in  lavishly  bestowing  upon  him  her  richest 
gifts,  was  obliged  to  withhold  one  which,  though 
desirable,  is  certainly  of  far  inferior  value  to  the  rest, 
lest  she  might  be  suspected  of  departing  from  that 
system  of  compensation,  by  which  she  has  the  credit 
of  being  guided  in  all  her  operations." 

It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Agnes  had 


128  THE   VOUNG    DEVOTEE, 

spoken  so  boldly,  or  with  so  much  implied  srrri- 
rily.  She  had  but  lately  begun  to  believe,  notwith- 
standing Mrs.  Scott's  hints  and  insinuations,  that 
Frazier  was  really  enicting  the  suitor.  Being  tired 
of  him,  she  was  desirous  that  he  should  discover  her 
indifference  as  soon  as  possible :  and  her  indignation 
at  the  coarse  and  unfeeling  manner  in  which  he 
spoke  of  Linwood,  roused  her  to  say  that  in  behalf 
of  the  latter,  which  would  have  touched  him  in  his 
weakest  point  had  he  been  more  sensitive.  He  had, 
however,  sufficient  conceit  to  save  him  from  any 
personal  application  of  this  speech ;  nor  did  the 
possibility  that  he  might  find,  "  in  that  piece  of 
deformity,"  a  rival,  occur  to  him. 

It  is  impossible  to  say,  whether  Agnes  would  have 
been  more  sorry  or  glad  had  she  known  that  her 
words  reached  Linwood's  ear,  as,  in  passing  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  his  progress  was  interrupted 
for  two  or  three  moments  just  by  her  chair.  He  was 
at  no  loss  to  apply  them,  although  he  had  not  heard 
the  observation  that  called  them  forth.  "  Noble 
girl,"  he  inwardly  exclaimed,  and  yet  he  doubted 
whether  she  felt  for  him  any  thing  more  than  a  senti- 
ment of  high  esteem. 

Two  weeks  passed  away,  after  these  incidents 
occurred,  during  which  delicacy  compelled  Agnes  to 
play  an  equal  part  between  her  lovers.  •  She  scrupu- 
lously avoided  receiving  from  Frank  any  attentions 
which  might  be  supposed  to  proceed  from  other 
motives  than  politeness;  nnd,  as  Linwood  had  never 
■.leclared   himself,  she  felt  not  at  all   sure  that  therv 


THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  \Jf) 

existed,  on  liis  part,  a  fender  sentiment  towards  lier. 
She  therefore  carefully  guarded,  almost  from  herselt! 
and  still  more  from  nmi,  the  secret  of  a  latent  prepos- 
session in  his  favor  —  which  under  favorable  circum- 
stances might  be  fully  elicited. 

Her  intercourse  with  both,  howe  'er,  was  completely 
suspended  for  some  weeks,  oy  the  illness  of  Lucy, 
suflering  under  a  severe  attack  of  scai.et  fever.  The 
physician  did  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  that  her  life 
depended  upon  the  most  careful  nursing;  and  by  no 
argument  or  intreaty  could  Agnes  be  induced  to  leave 
her  a  moment,  except  to  take  some  slight  refreshment 
in  an  adjoining  apartment.  Even  after  the  child  was 
pronounced  convalescent,  the  fear  of  a  relapse  retained 
Agnes  at  her  post. 

Fmding  that  she  still  refused  to  lea\-?  Lucy,  Frank 
became  impatient,  and  determined  no  longer  to  delay 
a  formal  declaration  of  his  sentiments.  A  less  confi- 
dent lover  might  have  thought  that  such  an  exposure  to 
open  rejection  had  been  already  rendered  unnecessary. 

Having  selected  an  exquisite  little  sheet  of  note 
paper,  with  an  embossed  edge,  and  inscribed  with 
a  specimen  of  his  most  elegant  penmanship — he 
carefully  folded  it  —  sealed  it  with  a  cameo  seal,  and 
slipping  it  inside  of  a  letter  which  he  had  just  brought 
for  her  from  the  post-office,  sent  it  up  to  her  room. 

The  letter  was  from  her  father,  from  whom  she 
had  not  heard  for  several  weeks,  and  by  the  time  she 
had  read  it  through,  the  note,  which  had  accidentally 
fallen  on  the  floor,  was  entirely  forgotten,  until  Lucy 
directed  her  attention  ;o  it. 


i30  THE    YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

Its  'mport  was  to  this  effect  —  that  he  had  nt /er 
before  experienced  so  severe  a  privation  as  the  loss, 
for  so  long  a  time,  of  her  society ;  that  such  a  trial 
was  not  necessary  to  convince  him  of  what  he  had 
previously  discovered,  that  she  was  indispensable  to 
his  happiness  —  and  that  nothing  but  an  acknow- 
ledgment, on  her  part,  that  these  sentiments  were 
reciprocated,  could  reconcile  him  to  a  lonjer  separa- 
tion. 

Agnes  replied,  thanking  him  for  his  professions  of 
regard,  and  added,  that  in  responding  to  them,  she 
must  limit  herself  to  terms  of  common  friendship. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Linwood,  who,  besides 
longing  to  see  Agnes  once  more,  really  began  to 
entertain  serious  fears  for  the  effect,  upon  her  health, 
of  such  prolonged  confinement,  called  to  inquire 
about  her  and  Lucy.  He  requested  that  Mrs.  Scott 
would  do  him  the  favor  to  carry  a  message  to  Miss 
Callender,  entreating  that  she  would  consent  to  walk 
out  and  take  the  air. 

Lucy,  who  had  never  before  been  willing  that 
Agnes  should  leave  her  a  moment,  joined  in  the 
request;  but  bade  Mrs.  Scott  tell  Mr.  Linwood,  that 
she  would  not  have  spared  her  sister  to  any  one  but 
him. 

They  had  proceeded  but  a  few  steps,  when  they 
met  Frank  Frazier,  who  passed  them  with  a  slight 
touch  of  the  hat.  Linwood  knew  instantly  from  his 
manner,  that  an  explanation,  unfavorable  to  his  suit, 
must  have  taken  place  between  him  and  Agnes;  and 
the  joy  excited   by  this  discovery,  was  visible  in  the 


TilE    VOUNG    DEVOTEE.  TJI 

uncommon  vivucity  of  his  spirits  during   the  whole 

WLllk. 

Just  as  they  were  returning,  "  Tell  me,  Agnes," 
said  he,  "  for  I  will  not  longer  bear  this  uncertainty, 
shall  I,  in  formally  declaring  what  must  have  been 
apparent  to  you,  doom  myself  to  the  fate  which  I  see 
you  have  inflicted  upon  our  friend?" 

"  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  inflict  upon  you, 
a  fate  that  you  would  regard  as  evil,"  replied  Agnes, 
in  some  confusion. 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  opened.  "  An 
revoir"  said  Lin  wood,  as,  pressing  her  hand,  he  bade 
her  good  morning,  and  she  passed  up  to  her  room. 
A  long  communication  which  she  that  day  received, 
to  which  a  text  had  been  furnished  by  the  above 
conversation,  met  a  different  reception  from  that 
which  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Frazier's  note. 

"  What  does  make  you  read  that  ^etter  over,  and 
over,  and  over,  sister  ?"   asked  Lucy.  . 

As  Mr.  Callender  was  supposed  to  be  about  this 
time  on  the  point  of  returning  home,  Linwood  thought 
it  useless  to  apply  to  him,  by  letter,  hi-  his  sanction  to 
theoe  important  measures.  He  had  received  so  many 
and  such  unquestionable  proofs  of  Mr.  Callender' a 
iMitire  confidence  and  respect,  not  to  say  personal 
attachment  too,  that  the  possibility  of  any  objection  on 
ills  part,  to  bestowing  upon  him  his  daughter,  had 
n  3ver  occurred  to  him. 

Pie  left  Boston  a  week  or  two  after  the  eventful 


ijii  THE    VOliNG    ULVOTEE. 

explanation  had  taken  place,  and  was  soon  IbllowrJ 
by  Mr.  Callender  and  his  children. 

As  the  enerag^ement  had  not  become  known  to 
Agnes'  friends,  and  she  was  too  modest  to  speak  of 
it  to  her  father,  he  remained  in  utter  ignorance  of 
the  whole  affair,  until  it  was  announced  to  him  by 
Linwood  himself,  when,  contrary  to  all  expectation, 
he  expressed  the  most  positive  and  entire  disapproba- 
tion of  it,  gfivinaf  as  a  reason  that  which  Linwood  had 
feared  might  constitute  an  obstacle  with  the  daughter, 
without  suspecting  that  it  could  affect  the  mind  of  the 
father. 

This  was  a  blow  from  which  it  was  not  easy  to 
recover,  and  many  days  passed  before  he  emerged 
again  from  the  seclusion  of  his  own  solitary  apart- 
ment. 

Meanwhile  her  father  did  not  fail  to  inform  Agnes 
of  the  result  of  Linwood's  application,  and  to  give 
her  his  whole  mind  upon  the  subject.  She  was  like 
the  lamb  led  to  the  slaughter,  whi:h  opens  not  its 
mouth,  until  he  had  exhausted  a.l  he  had  to  say; 
when  she  simply  replied,  "  Thei,  henceforth,  sir,  I 
devote  my  life  to  you." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  child ;  these  young 
hearts  are  amazingly  susc-ptible  —  impressions  are 
easily  made  and  easily  efTiiced." 

Mr.  Calleiuler  had  not  derived  the  benefit  to  liis 
health,  from  his  voyage  ami  winter  residence,  which  he 
PKpected.  He  had  mistaken  the  nature  of  the  climate 
ho  had  sought  in  supposing  it  suited  to  his  omplaint, 


T  HE    \0  V  N  (.    I)  t.  V  o  1  E  E  .  133 

whici.  iL  /either  aggravated  than  allayed.  He  had 
many  severe  attacks  in  the  course  of  the  summer,  and 
Agnes  devoted  herself  to  him  with  untiring  assiduity. 
When  so  ill  that  he  was  obligud  to  sit  up  all  night, 
as  not  unfrequently  happened,  she  would  not  leave 
his  room  ;  but  threw  herself  upon  a  sofa,  whence  she 
often  rose  to  see  if  he  did  not  require  some  attention. 

She  even  gave  up,  very  much,  the  care  of  Lucy, 
and  sent  her  to  a  school  in  the  neighborhood. 

She  hardly  saw  Linwood,  for  Mr.  Callender's  ill 
health,  being  of  a  kind  particularly  to  unfit  him  for 
conversation,  served  him  as  a  pretext  for  staying 
away  ;  and  he  felt  that  to  meet  often  would  be  painful 
both  to  himself  and  Agnes.  Occasionally,  however, 
when  admitted  by  particular  request  of  the  invalid  to 
his  sick  room,  he  gazed  at  Agnes'  altered  appearance 
with  a  look  of  the  most  tender  solicitude. 

"'Tis  true,  Linwood,"  said  Mr.  Callender,  replying 
one  day  to  his  companion's  looks,  not  his  Avords  — 
"  'tis  ii-ue,  the  poor  girl  is  suffering  much  from  this 
unremitting  attendance  upon  me.  But  what  is  to  be 
done?  she  will  not  leave  me,  and  I -—I  am  very 
dependent  upon  her."  As  he  finished  speaking  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Three  or  four  months  passed  away,  and  Mr. 
Callender  began  to  experience  a  sensible  mitigation 
of  his  complaint.  As  he  became  again  capable  of 
enjoying  society,  he  was  eager  as  ever  for  that  ol 
Linwood;  who,  in  spite  of  the  estrangement  of  feeling 
produced  by  what  he  considered  unjust  and  unreason- 
r.ble    conduct    or     his    part,    retained    too   sensible    a 

12 


Hfi  THE    VOL  NG    DEVOTEE. 

remembrance  of  former  obligations,  and  folt  too 
conscientiously  the  duties  which  persons  in  hcahh 
owe  to  the  sick,  to  withhold  what  seemed  to  give  him 
sc  much  pleasure.     , 

At  first  it  was  Agnes'  custom  to  escape  from  the 
room  soon  after  he  entered ;  but,  by  degrees,  she 
found  herself  quietly  retaining  her  accustomed  seat, 
and  listening  to  his  conversation  with  more  pleasure, 
than  any  thing  else,  saving  always  Luc}-'s  fond 
caresses,  could  now  afford  her. 

And  why  was  not  Mr.  Callender  afraid  of  this 
continued  intercourse?  How  could  he  hope  that 
Agnes'  affections  would  be  weaned  from  Linwood 
when  they  were  thus  continually  supplied  M'ith  fresh 
food?  He  did  not  analyze  his  feelings  upon  the 
subject,  and,  had  he  done  so,  he  would  have  been  at 
a  loss,  perhaps,  to  answer  these  inquiries.  Agnes' 
great  Qv"otion  to  him  had  made  him  doubt  the  reason- 
ableness of  his  conduct  towards  her,  and  he  was 
perhaps  willing  to  follow,  as  chance  might  le:^,  to  a 
retrieval  of  his  error. 

One  evening,  as  she  was  performing  some  little 
service  for  him,  when  Linwood  was  present,  he  said 
to  her,  "My  child,  you  have  long  been  doing  all  in 
your  power  for  me;  'tis  time  that  I  should  do  some- 
thing for  you.  I  am  going  to  my  room  to  write  a 
letter,  and  will  leave  you  to  consult  with  Mr.  Linwood 
on  the  choice  of  your  reward."  He  advanced  as  far 
as  the  door,  then  returned  —  "My  dear  friend,"  said 
he,  addressing  himself  t)  Linwood,  and  taking  him 
by  th(i  hand  —  "I  am  aeeply  indebted   to  you  both. 


TMU    VOUNO    DEVOTEE.  135 

Assuriie  each  my  debt  to  the  other,  and  pay  it  as  you 
best  may.  IVIy  long  sickness  has  rid  me  I  hope  of 
some  follies,  and  among  others,  that  of  thinking  that 
there  is  any  reasonable  bar  to  the  union  which  you 
both  desire." 

He  then  rcireated,  leaving  the  1<  vers  to  quaff 
together  the  delicious  cup  thus  unexpectedly  present- 
ed to  their  lips. 


STANZAS. 


Still  haunted,  wheresoe'er  I  fly, 
Yet  doomed  for  aye  to  fly  alone  — 

I  cannot  live,  yet  may  not  die, 

Still  seeking  what  is  still  unknown. 

Hear  thou,  who  wi^'  not  leave  me  free. 
Hear  but  the  prayer  I  now  prefer  — 

The  dream  of  love  thou'st  taught  to  me, 
Unteach  n,    quite,  or  teach  to  her. 


LAKE    GEORGE. 


Not  in  the  bannered  castle  — 

Beside  the  gilded  throne  — 
On  fields  where  knight'ly  ranks  hav^  itroac 

In  feudal  halls  ^— alone  — 
The  spirit  of  the  stately  mien, 

Whose  presence  flings  a  spell 
Fadeless,  on  all  around  her. 

In  empire  loves  to  dwell ! 

Gray  piles,  and  moss-grown  cloistert 

Call  up  the  shadows  vast. 
That  linger  in  their  dim  domain  — 

Dreams  of  the  visioned  past! 
As  sweep  the  gorgeous  pageants  >>y, 

We.  watch  the  pictured  train. 
And  sigh  that  aught  so  glorious 

Should  be  so  brief  and  vain. 

But  here  a  spell  yet  deeper, 

Breathes  from  the  woods,  the  sky ; 

Proudlier  these  rocks  and  waters  speak 
Of  hoar  antiquity. 


'   3     J 
>    3    J 

3'V 
3    3    J 


t   c  f   « 
C  '  c 


,  .c  t 

cc  «  « 


•    «   «    « 


LAKE    GE0RC;E. 

Here  nature  built  her  ancient  realm, 
While  yet  the  world  was  yoiing; 

Her  monuments  of  grandeur 
Unshaken  stand,  and  strong. 

Here  shines  the  sun  of  Freedom 

Forever,  o'er  the  deep 
Where  Freedom's  heroes,  by  the  shore. 

In  peaceful  glory  sleep. 
And  deeds  of  high  and  proud  emprize 

In  every  breeze  are  told  — 
The  ever^.asting  tribute 

To  hearts  that  now  are  cold  ! 

Farewell,  then,  scenes  so  lovely! 

If  sunset  gild  your  rest, 
Or  the  pale  starlight  gleam  upon 

The  water's  silvery  breast  — 
Or  morning  on  these  glad  green  isles 

In  tremblmg  splendor  glows,  — - 
A  holier  spell  than  beauty 

Hallows  your  pure  repose? 


12 


37 


DEATH   OF  GALEAZZO   SFORZA. 


Galeazzo,  Duke  of  Milan,  wa  5  assassinated  A.  D.  1476,  on  St.  Stephen's 
day,  while  entering  the  church,  by  three  young  men, — Lainpognano, 
Viscor.ti.  a>ul  Olgiato  ;  who,  in  addition  to  their  hatred  of  his  public  career, 
were  irritated  against  liiiu  by  private  injuries.  The  first  two  were  im- 
mediately killed  by  the  guards,  but  Olgiato  made  his  escape.  Being  refused 
shelter  and  su.stenanie  by  ail  his  friends,  except  his  nioiiier,  he  wai 
afterwards  taken  and  executed  on  the  scafifold.  His  last  words  were,— 
■'  Mors  actrba,  Jama  perpetua ;  stabil  vetus  mcmoria  facii." 


'TwAS  morn;  the  sun  upon  a  throne  of-  light, 

Poured  forth  his  golden  smile,  unclouded,  bright — 

From  Alpine  hills  the  moon  was  seen  to  rise. 

Shaping"  from  earth  a  pathway  to  the  skies. 

The  song  u!  streams  was  heard  in  joyous  sweep 

And  nearer  still,  the  murmurs  low  and  deep 

Of  human  tones.     A  mighty  city  lay 

In  the  warm  light  —  where  shone  the  awakened  day 

On  burnished  roof,  and  towers,  and  glittering  spires, 

Whose  kindling  peaks  shone  all  with  nnswering  fires 

It  was  a  holy  day  —  and  many  a  bell 

Pealed  out  its  summoning  tones  in  solemn  swell; 

And  all  obeyed.     The  priest  in  robes  of  white. 

Which  seemed  to  enfold  the  consecrated  light, 

Passed  slowly  on  —  and  meekly  in  his  train 

The  crowd  that  sought  his  'vords  of  life  to  gam. 

The  peasant,  there,  his  labours  ceased  tiwhilp. 


DliATH   OFGALEaZZU   SFORZa.  13 

And  passed  with  brow  composed  and  thoughtful  smile; 

The  noble,  too,  forgetful  of  his  pride, 

With  his  unemulous  serf  walked  side  by  side; 

The  stately  knight  dreamed  not  of  victories  won, 

And  waved  no  glittering  falchion  in  the  sun  , 

But  passed  with  humble  port  to  worship  Him, 

In  whose  high  sight  the  deeds  of  earth  grow  dim. 

Yet  passed  a  few  amid  the  silent  throng, 

Whose  bosoms  burned  with  passions  cherished  long ; 

With  high  resolves,  matured  and  hid  in  night. 

Yet  in  the  hours  of  darkness  gathering  might, 

Like  the  pent  torrent,  struggling  with  its  chain, 

With  deadlier  rage  to  desolate  the  plain. 

They,  too,  passed  on  —  with  step  subdued,  and  mien 

Humblest  of  all  that  in  the  crowd  were  seen ; 

Yet  oft  the  lip  comprest  —  the  glancing  eye. 

Whose  quick  keen  look  would  scan  each  visage  nigh, 

Marked   them   as    strange,  —  perchance   for  men    ol 

crime 
Stained  with  remorse,  unsoothed  by  changing  time ; 
And  one  by  one,  the  multitude,  in  fear, 
Shrank  from  their  side.     Oh !   long  the  moment  near, 
By  those  stern  spirits,  had  been  Avished  and  sought ! 
Where'er  their  steps  had  been,  a  single  thought 
Had  fired  each  breast  —  stern,  restless,  mastering  stil! 
Each  weaker  passion,  and  each  selfish  will. 
They  saw  their  place  of  birth,  iheir  fathers'  land 
Sunk  'neath  the  pressure  of  an  iron  hand. 
They  heard  the  sighs,  a  mighty  nation  poured   - 
The  deep  curse,  breathed  upon  its  tyrant  lord — - 
A.nd,  pledged  to  vengeance,  swore  that  from  her  chain. 


,'0       DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA. 

Their  country  should  arise  to  life  again,  ' 

Though  the  stern  blow  for  which  the  sword  they  drew 
To  free  tlieir  land,  should  crush  her  champions  too ! 
The  hour  was  come; — they  reached  the  lofty  gate; 
The  archway  frowned  in  proud  and  sculptured  state, 
Fit  entrance  to  such  temple  !  — "  'Tis  thv'  spot 
Appointed  —  and  the  hour  —  why  comes  ho  not?"  — 
Within,  a  solemn  strain  of  music  rose, 
Breaking  the  silent  temple's  rich  repose; 
And  as  the  anthem  swelled  upon  the  ear, 
Without,  the  tramp  of  hastening  feet  they  hear; 
And  dark  eyes  flashed  —  as  proudly  to  their  sight, 
[n  gorgeous  robes,  with  many  a  chosen  knight 
Ranged  at  his  side,  the  haughty  sovereign  came. 
Fresh  blessings  from  insuUed  Heaven  to-  claim ! 
Nor  deemed  that  righteous  vengeance,  long  delayed. 
Watched  for  her  prey  beneath  the  sacred  shade. 
He  strode  yet  on  —  he  stood  beside  the  door — 
His  step  that  tlireshold  shall  profane  no  more! 
"  God  and  St.  Ambrose!" — Starting  at  the  cry. 
Their  consecrated  weapons  gleamed  on  high  !  — 
"  God  and  St.  Ambrose !"  answering  to  the  sound. 
Their  swift  blows  felled  the  tyrant  to  the  ground ! 
A  moment — and  'twas  o'er  —  prosuate  he  lay, 
A  hundred  death-wounds  gaping  to  the  day  — 
While  darkly  on  his  brow,  of  life  bereft, 
Her  seal  of  pride  the  parting  spirit  left. 
In  wild  amazement  stood  his  menial  train;  — 
And  could  no  tongue  awake  the  shout  again? 
Burst  there  no  voice  of  rapture,  to  proclaim 
Their  country  tree  to  liail  her  cliampions'  name? 


DEATH   OF   G\I,EAZZO    SFORZA.  ]41 

Were  there  no  hearts  whose  burning  wrongs  called 

loud 
For  such  revenge,  in  all  that  wondering  crowd? 
There  were !  hut  pan  -,  chilled  each  throbbing  breast, 
Where  thoughts  of  daring  had  no  longer  rest! 
They  dared  not  strive  for  freedom !     And  they  saw. 
Panting  to  aid,  but  quelled  by  slavish  awe, 
Those  fated  men,  whose  crime  had  been  to  biave 
Untimely  death,  their  bleeding  land  to  save, 
Hewn  down  by  numerous  swords  ;  —  they  heard  t  .e 

groan. 
They  saw  the  desperate  struggle,  as  alone, 
Unsuccored,  two  already  sunk  to  die  — 
The  third  then  flung  his  reeking  blade  on  high, 
And  sought  escape  by  flight.     On  every  side 
The  multitude  in  silent  fear  divide, 
And  as  he  vanished  from  their  bafiied  sight, 
Half  uttered  benisons  pursued  his  flight. 

******** 

The  scene  was  changed  :  — the  slow  and  solemn  tread 

Of  mingled  crowds,  and  anthems  for  the  dead, 

Were  heard,  low  swelling  to  the  cloudless  sky;  — 

And  near,  the  frowning  scaflbld  rose  on  high ; 

While  he  who  Avas  to  pour  his  life-blood  there, 

Came  forth  with  haggard  brow,  and  bosom  bare, 

Led  by  the  ministers  of  royal  hate. 

Who  scowled  exulting  o'er  their  victim's  fate. 

Yet  in  his  dauntless  mien,  and  bearing  high. 

And  the  proud  anger  of  his  scornful  eye. 

He  bore  what  quelled  his  foes,  and  from  his  name 

Rack  on  their  conscious  bosoms  turned  the  shame  I 


42  DEATH   OF    CALKAZZO    SFORZA. 

Bound,  and  with  step  that  faltered  but  with  pain. 

He  stood  upon  the  scaflbld !    I'hrough  the  train 

Which  thronged  the  space  around,  a  murmur  passed 

Low,  deep,  and  universal, — like  the  blast 

That  scuds  through  forest  boughs,  a  stirring  thrill, 

Bowing  their  tops — and  all  again  was  still. 

Was  it  expiring  freedom's  latest  cry? 

He  knew  not  —  cared  not — hither  brought  to  die, 

What  recked  it  that  his  undeserved  fate 

Should  rouse  their  pity  ?     It  was  now  too  late ! 

Who  —  when  from  tyrant  vengeance  he  had  fled, 

The  price  of  princely  murder  on  his  head. 

And  sought  in  vain,  throughout  his  native  land, 

A  spot  for  refuge — Avho,  in  all  that  band 

Which  stood  to  watch  his  death,  had  dared  to  give 

A  sheltering  home,  and  bid  the  wanderer  live? 

None — none  !   all  shrunk  in  terror  from  his  touch  ; 

Priest — soldier — father — brethren !  'Twas  too  much< 

The  sufferer  from  patrician  wrath  to  hide  — 

And  all  the  boon  of  sustenance  denied ! 

How  oft,  in  shelter  of  some  Alpine  wood, 

The  brute  his  comrade,  and  wild  herbs  his  food, 

Lone  had  he  roamed,  when  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Or  lh(;  wild  storm  careered  through  clouds  on  high, 

'^Vo  snatch  a  look  at  scenes  beloved  in  vain, 

Which  his  sad  step  might  never  tread  again ! 

How  often  had  he  cursed,  with  bitter  hi  art. 

'I'he  coward  souls  which  shuiuied  to  bear  their  part 

In  the  liigh  deed  that  might  have  made  all  free, 

Had  such  been  formpil  to  cherish  liberty! 

Y^et  was  there  one  —  \  s  one  —  wlio  would  have  given 


DEATH  OF  UALEAZZO  SFORZA.       143 

tier   hearts  last  drop  to   save   him.  —  wou\i  hav,- 

striven 
Singly  'gainst  earth  and  heaven !      She  alone 
Received  him,  to  all  love  besides  unknown!  — 
She,  only,  Avatched,  with  daily,  hourly  care, 
And  poured  for  him  the  agonizing  prayer !  — 
His  mother  !     Now,  when  all  the  timid  throng 
Retreated,  to  the  scafTolds  foot  she  clung. 
And  wept  alone.     Oh  !   prou-.:ly  he  had  borne 
The  rabble's  pity,  and  patrician  scorn. — 
But  this — the  bitterness  of  death  was  here! 
He  turned  away,  and  checked  the  gushing  tear ; 
While  coldly  on  his  sickened  sense,  a  knell 
To  hope  and  life,  the  deadly  summons  fell. 
They  took  his  chains  away  —  and  free  once  more, 
The  life-warm  tide,  so  checked  and  chilled  before 
Burst  in  bewildering  vigour  on  his  brain, 
And  nerved  him  to  forgotten  joy  again. 
He  saw  afar  beneath  the  smiling  skies, 
His  native  hills  in  pencilled  beauty  rise 
He  saw,  through  vallies  bright  with  summer  g-ee^ 
The  Po  sweep  on  to  join  the  distant  sea; 
The  lines  of  sunset  in  their  bland  repose. 
He  saw  recline  on  gleaming  Alpme  snows; 
While  o'er  the  humbler  woodland's  sloping  swell, 
Calm,  mild,  and  rich,  the  golden  glory  fell ; 
And  near,  the  stately  city  stood  in  pride  — 
Alas  !   fair  land  !  'twere  rapture  to  have  died 
For  thee,  if  in  thy  breast  the  martyrs  doom 
Could  light  one  spark,  to  banish  slavery's  gloom! 
Wildly  toward  Heaven  his  arms  unchained  he  threw-- 


144  DKATH    OI--    n  A  I.K  A  7. /ri    >IO!!/.A. 

"'Tis  not" — he  proudlj'  cried — "'tis  not  for  you, 

"  Degraded  race,  who  meekly  trembling,  tread 

"  Your  fatiiers'  land,  and  shame  the  glorious  dead.— 

"My  sentence  to  record!  —  Yon  hills,  which  stand 

"  The  everlasting  guardians  of  this  land — 

"  Yon  river's  ancient  tide — the  eternal  sky — 

"  These  are  my  witnesses  !  — -here  must  I  die  — 

"  But  these — which  saw  my  treason,  and  behold 

"The  guerdon  ye  bestow  on  hearts  too  bold — 

"  When  no  dark  art  of  malice  can  prevail, 

"  To  future  years  shall  tell  the  impartial  tale! 

"  My  death  is  bitter,  but  from  no  true  heart 

"  The  memory  of  my  wrong  shall  e'er  depart  I 

"  The  deed  is  fixed,  and  ages  yet  unborn 

"Shall  know  on  ichom  to  hurl  the  sh.aft  of  scorn." 

He  said,  —  and  glanced  one  brief  and  farewell  look; 

Then  bowed  his  neck,  that  knew  no  yoke  to  brook, 

One  moment  high  the  unshadowed  weapon  gleamed  — 

The  next  in  crimson  tide  life's  current  streamed! 

A  cry  was  heard  —  'twas  not  from  him  who  bled. — 

But  full  of  startling  anguish,  wild  and  dr-jad. 

Woman's  heart-broken  shriek  —  such  as  c.Aild  pour 

C*ite  breast  a.one,  when  its  last  hope  ^^■AS  o'er ! 


AMY  cranst:un. 


BY  THE  ACTHOB  OP  REDWOOD,  HOPS  LESLIB,  BTC 


The  famous  Indian  war,  which  endec  in  the 
destruction  of  the  chieftain  of  Mount  Hope  and  his 
adherents,  broke  out  just  a  hundred  years  before  our 
revolutionary  war;  a  circumstance  which  Ave  leave 
for  the  speculation  of  those  who  believe  that  certain 
periods  of  time  have  a  mysterious  relation  and  depen- 
dance,  while  we  use  it  merely  to  fix  the  date  of  a 
domestic  story,  some  important  portions  of  which  have 
been  omitted  on  the  page  of  history,  rather  we  should 
hope  fi-om  its  fitness  for  a  cabinet  picture,  than  from 
its  insignificance. 

Madam  Cranstoun,  at  that  period,  resided  at  Provi- 
dence, and  was,  we  believe,  the  wife  of  the  governor 
of  Providence  Plantations.  If  we  are  mistaken  in 
his  official  dignity,  we  are  not  in  the  fact,  that  he  is 
set  down  in  history  as  a  "notable  gentleman."  There 
was  living  with  Mrs.  Cranstoun,  a  dependant  on  her 
bounty,  an  orphan  niece  of  her  husband.  Amy  Crans- 
toun. Amy  had  the  figure  of  a  nymph,  and  a  face 
that  expressed  a  freedom  and  happiness  of  spirit  that 
even  dependance,  that  most  restricting  and  acidifying 
of  all  states,   could  never   subdue  nor  sour ;    and  an 

13 


rt6  AMY    C  RAN  ST  O  I  N. 

innocence    and  open-henrtedness,  Avithout   fear,    and 
without  reproach. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  elderly  persons  of  the 
strict  community  in  'which  she  lived,  looked  upon  her 
as  a  very  unapproveahle  and  unedifying  damsel :  still 
she  had  the  miraculous  art  to  open  a  fountain  of  lo\e 
in  their  hard  bound  bosoms.  She  had  the  irrepressi- 
ble gayety  of  a  child.  Her  elastic  step  seemed  t(> 
keep  time  with  the  harmonious  springs  of  youth  ana 
joy.  At  ill  times  and  seasons,  and,  it  must  be 
confessed,  without  any  very  reasonable  relation  to 
persons  or  circumstances,  her  musical  voice  would 
break  forth  in  song,  or  bursts  of  laughter — 

"  That  without  any  contiul, 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  frOni  her  soul." 

Poor  Amy  often  offended  against  the  rigid  observances 
of  her  contemporaries.  She  would  gape,  and  even 
smile  in  the  midst  of  the  protracted  Sabbath-service, 
and  that  in  spile  of  the  bend  of  her  uncle's  awful 
brow,  her  aunt's  idmonitory  winks,  and  the  plummet 
and  rule  example  of  her  cousins  —  maiden  ladies, 
some  fifteen  years  older  than  Amy,  who  were  so 
pfjrpendicular  and  immoveable,  that  our  gay  little 
friend  sometimes  suspected  that  the  process  of  petri- 
faction had  begun  about  the  vital  region  of  their 
hearts.  Amy  had  a  wonderful  facility  in  committing 
to  memory  "ungodly  ballads  and  soul-enslavincr 
songs,"  but  a  sort  of  intellectual  dyspepsia  when  she 
attempted  to  digest  sacrc:  literature.  She  iu;ver 
repeated    an    answer    accurately   in    the   assembly'? 


AMY    CRANs.     OITN  147 

catechism ;  and  though  she  did  not,  as  is  reported 
of  those  "afflicted  by  the  Salem  vv'itches;'  J'abi.l  at 
the  reading  of  that  precious  little  treatise  entitled, 
•'  Cotton's  Milk  for  Babes,"  she  was  sure  tc  fall 
asleep  over  it,  the  very  opposite  effect  to  that  intended 
by  the  author  of  this  spiritual  food.  She  reached  the 
age  of  eighteen  w^ithout  acquiring  the  current  virtues 
of  her  day ;  but  hor  beauty,  spirit,  or  sweet  temper, 
or  all  of  them  imited,  attracted  more  suitors  than  her 
exemplary  and  well-proportioned  cousins  could  boast 
through  their  long  career.  Among  the  rest  came 
one  Uriah  Smith,  the  son  of  Deacon  Smith,  a  precious 
light  in  Boston.  Uriah  was  a  fair,  sleek,  softly 
looking  youth,  grave  and  deliberate,  and  addicted  to 
none  of  the  "  fooleries  and  braveries"  of  the  coxcombs 
of  the  day.  So  said  Madam  Cranstoun  to  Amy,  for 
Uriah  had  not,  like  young  Edwin,  "only bowed,"  but 
had  told  his  love  —  not  to  the  niece,  but  most  discreetly 
to  the  aunt.  Madam  Cranstoun,  amazed  at  the 
wonder-working  Providence,  as  she  was  pleased  to 
term  it,  that  had  set  before  her  niece  the  prospect  oi 
such  a  "companion,"  communicated,  to  Amy,  Uriah's 
proposition,  Vv'ith  all  the  circumlocution  and  emphasis 
a  prime  minister  might  have  employed  to  announce  a 
royal  bounty  ;  but  most  ungraciously  did  Amy  receive 
it.  She  sat  the  while  calmly  drawing  with  her 
pencil  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  book,  her  face  unmoved, 
except  that  now  and  then  a  slight  but  ominous  smile 
drew  up  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "  Cousin  Amy ! 
cousin  Amy !"  exclaimed  her  aunt,  "  give  m.e  that 
book,  and  let"  me  hear  you  testify  your  thankfulness 


;^;«  AMY    CRANSTOrN. 

for  a  favor  of  which,  sooth  to  say,  you  are  abnnuaiitly 
unworthy." 

"  Well,  there  is  the  book,  aunt  Cranstoun,  and  let  ii 
speak  for  your  '  unwprthy'  niece." 

One  glance  at  the  pencilled  page  sufficed.  Amy 
had  delineated  there  a  striking  resemblance  of  the 
overgrown  angular  Rosinante,  on  which  Uriah  had 
rid  to  his  wooing,  and  for  the  rider  she  had  portrayed 
the  form  of  Uriah,  and  the  face  of  a  monkey! 
"Shame!  shame  to  you,  Amy!"  exclaimed  her  aunt, 
"  daic  you  thus  to  trifle  with  so  serious  a  subject  ?" 

"  The  subject  is  too  serious,  I  confess,  aunt,  to  be 
trifled  with,  and  therefore,  being  an  incorrigible 
trifler,  I  must  decline  it  altogether."  Madam  Cran- 
stoun stared  in  dumb  astonishment.  "  I  am  in 
earnest,  aunt,"  continued  Amy,  "Master  Uriah  must 
seek  a  more  suitable  helpmeet  than  your  foolish 
niece." 

"  Foolish!  —  both  foolish  and  wicked.  Amy."  Ma- 
dam Cranstoun  lost  her  self-command.  "  Yea,  wicked, 
withoui.  leave,  counsel,  and  consultation,  from  and 
with  those  who  have  given  you  -shelter,  food,  and 
raiment  from  your  cradle,  blindly  and  scofiingly  to 
reject  this  little-to-be  expected,  and  most  umnerited 
provision  for  your  protection  and  maintenance 
through  life." 

Amy's  frivolity,  if  it  must  bo  called  V/  so  hai'sh  a 
name,  vanished,  while  half  indignant  and  hal) 
subdued,  her  cheeks  burning,  and  tears  gushinp 
from  her  eyes,  slic  said  —  "For  food,  raiment,  and 
shelter,     and    for    every    kindly-spoken    word,     ann* 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  149 

Cranstoun,  the  only  child  of  your  husband's  sainted 
sister  thanks  you,  and  will,  please  God,  testify  her 
gratitude  lor  your  past  bounty  by  every  act  of  duty 
and  devotion  to  you  and  yours.  But  I  implore 
you,  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  the  fatherless, 
not  to  drive  me  from  the  house  of  dependance  to 
a  house  of  bondage — the  vilest  bondage,  service 
without  love,  fetters  on  my  affection — joyous  would 
they  be  in  a  voluntary  service,  but  rebellious  and 
improfitable  in  a  compelled  one." 

Madam  Cranstoun's  heart  was  touched.  She 
perceived  there  was  reason  as  well  as  feeling  in 
Amy's  appeal.  "  Well — well,  child,"  she  said,  "  you 
know  I  do  not  wish  to  put  a  force  upon  you.  I  do  not, 
nor  ever  did,  feel  you  to  be  a  heavy  burden  on  us  ; 
I  only  ask  you  to  take  the  proposition  of  Master  Uriah 
into  consideration,  and  try  to  love  him,  as  it  becometh 
a  virtuous  maiden  to  love  a  worthy  suitor." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  ask  me  to  do  any  thing  else,  but  indeed 
there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  love.  I  did  try,  and  for 
one  of  whom,  I  confess,  I  was  not  m  any  sort  worthy ; 
and  whom,  beforehand,  I  should  have  deemed  it  right 
easy  to  love,  but  the  more  I  tiied  the  more  impossible 
I  found  it." 

"  And  for  whom,  I  pray  you,  did  you  make  this 
marvellous  trial?"  Amy  was  silent.  "Not,  I  am 
sure,  for  Master  James  Chilton  ? — nor  Nathaniel 
Goodeno  ?"  Amy  shook  her  head.  "  And  you 
woul  .  not.  Amy,"  continued  her  aunt  with  a  more 
scrutinizing  glance,  "you  would  not  try  io  love  that 
lawless  young  spark — I  will  not  mention  his  name, 
1 


15C  AMY    (•  i;  A  N  STf)l   N  . 

since  your  uncle  has  forbidden  it  to  be  spoken  within 
his  doors." 

Amy  felt  her  face  and  neck  flushing  and  burning, 
and  to  avert  the  risfht  inference  from  her  treacherous 
blushes,  she  did  what  may  be  most  pithily  expressed 
by  a  vulgar  proverb,  'jumped  out  of  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire.'  "  No,  no,  aunt,''  she  said,  "  he  to  whom 
1  allude  is  far — far  away,  and  has  I  trust  forgotten 
me." 

"Surely — surely,  Amy,  you  do  not  mean  "VVick- 
liffe  Wilson  ?" 

"  I  do,  aunt,"  replied  Amy,  with  an  irrepressible 
smile  that  abated  the  virtue  of  her  humble  tone  of 
voice. 

"  Oh,  Amy !"  exclaimed  her  aunt,  in  a  voice  of 
sorrow  and  rebuke,  "  you  amaze  and  distress  me.  I 
knew  you  to  be  giddy  and  trifling  to  a  degree,  but 
I  never  before  thought  you  senseless  and  hard- 
hearted." She  paused,  and  then  added,  as  if  a  sudden 
light  had  broken  upon  her,  "Ah,  I  see  it  all  now! 
Little  did  I  think  when  Wicklifte  was  spending  his 
precious  time,  day  after  day,  in  teaching  you  thf 
tongues,  that  Satan  was  spreading  a  snare  for  him. 
How  could  the  learned  and  pious  youth  sufler  his 
afTections  to  be  wasted  upon  such  a  piece  of  laughing 
idlesse !  WicklifTe  Wilson,  the  honored  son  of  an 
honored  sire!  the  gifted  youth!  the  hope  of  the 
plantation !  Amy,  Amy,  was  it  for  tnat  his  eye 
lacked  its  lustre,  his  cheek  became  sunken  and  pale, 
and  !;is  heart  waxed  faint! — love  of  ?/»//,  Aniv, 
that    has    sent    him    forth     from    his    father's    linuse. 


AMY    CRANSTOtlN.  IB\ 

ana  from  his  native  land,  and  without  one  accusing 
word  or  lo  )k  ?" 

Amy  burst  into  tears.  "  He  was  most  generous." 
she  said,  "  I  would  have  done  any  thing  to  manifest 
my  gratitude  to  him,  and  as  I  truly  told  you,  aunt,  1 
did  try  in  earnest  to  love  him." 

"O  pshaw,  child!  —  I  see  through  it  all.  Yju 
could  not  choose  hut  have  loved  him,  had  not  your 
unbridled  aflfections  strayed  another  way.  The  sooner 
vou  recall  them  the  better,  for  never  —  r:ever  shall 
you  wed  with  Lovell  Reeve  —  a  foil,  a  cjntrast  truly 
lo  the  worthy  youth  WicklifTe!" 

Thus  pursued,  Amy  turned  and  stood  at  bav. 
"  Aunt  Cranstoun,"  she  said,  "  worthy  and  noble  as 
WicklifTe  may  be,  and  I  grant  him  so,  Lovell  Reeve, 
in  all  gentlemanly  points,  in  all  high  sentiment  and 
right  feeling,  is  his  equal  —  his  equal  in  every  thing 
but  yours  and  my  uncle's  esteem ;  and  I  have  long 
believed,  without  the  courage  to  tell  you  so,  that  some 
one  has  traduced  him  to  you." 

"  Nay,  Amy,  his  own  ill  deeds  dispraise  hiu). 
Did  he  not  join  the  galliards  of  Boston,  in  their 
assemblings  fo;  dancing  and  other  forbidden  frolics  ? 
Did  he  not  aid  and  abet  —  nay,  was  he  not  the  sole 
instigator  and  agent  in  conveying  dame  Hyslop 
beyond  the  Massachusetts,  after  it  was  well  nigh 
proven  that  *he  was  the  confederate  and  vowed 
servant  of  Satan,  in  bewitching  Levi  Norton's 
children?  —  and  was  not  Lovell  Reeve  foremost,  ard 
ringleader  of  those  ungodly  youths,  who  discredited 
the  right  of  the  assistants,  and  openly  opposed   tln' 


i52  A  M  Y    C  R  A  N  S  T  O  C  S  . 

driving  forth  of  the  Quakers,   and  the  extirpation  of 
their  blasphemous  heresy? ' 

"  I  believe,  aunt,  he   has  done  all  this." 

"  And  still  you  dare  to  even  him  with  one,  who  is  in 
full  communion  and  fair  stan  ling  with  the  church, 
and  whose  walk  has  been,  like  pious  Samuel's,  even 
from  his  youth,  in  all  godliness." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  the  Scripture  says  there  be  divers  gifts  ; 
WicklifFe's  are  not  Lovell's,  neither,  under  favor  I 
say  it,  are  Lovell's,  Wickliffe's.  And  now,"  she 
continued,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  her 
aunt,  and  clasping  her  hands,  "  Now,  my  dear  aunt, 
that  I  have  boldly  foregone  maidenly  modesty,  and 
spoken,  in  some  measure  as  I  feel,  of  my  true-love,  let 
me  plead  with  you,  by  all  your  care  for  my  well- 
being —  by  all  your  gentle,  womanly  thoughts  and 
memories — by  that  pure  and  interchanged  affection 
which  Lovell  and  I  have  plighted  before  God,  I 
beseech  ye  let  me  follow  the  biddings  of  my  heart, 
and  profess  before  the  world  what  I  have  revealed  to 
you,  instead  of  hiding  it  like  a  guilty  passion  in  the 
depths  of  my  heart  —  you  do  feel  for  us  !  —  you 
cannot  help  it  —  Oh  speak  to  my  uncle." 

Amy  had  skilfully  touc  led  a  powerful  spring. 
Her  aunt  was  affected  by  her  lialf  voluntary  confi- 
dence ;  but  though  the  long  congealed  sources  of 
sympathy  were  softened,  thi-y  were  not  molted,  and 
when  Amy  mentioned  her  uncle,  the  subject,  in 
Madam  Cranstouii,  reverted  to  its  old  light.  "  Rise, 
my  child,"  she  said,  "it  i.l  becomes  you  to  put 
your'jclf  in  the  posti've  of  a  si  ly  damsel  of  romnnre 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  MS 

Your  uncle  and  I  cannot  rectde  from  a  decision 
made  after  due  and  prayerful  deliberation.  I  nou- 
perceive  that  you  an-  apprised  of  the  youth  liOvell 
having  applied  to  us  —  not  as  he  should  have  done 
before  communins  with  you,  —  for  leave  to  make  suit 
to  you,  to  which  Ave  answered  with  a  full  negative., 
and  stated  our  reasons  therefor,  which,  were  he  of  a 
right  temper,  would  have  been  satisfactory.  We 
have  fully  warned  him  not  to  urge  you  to  an  act  of 
disobedience  and  secured  his  compliance  by  inform- 
ing him  that  any  marriage  bounty,  which  your  uncle 
might  purpose,  would  be  withheld  in  case  of  your 
failure  in  duty  due." 

"  You  mistake  his  spirit  —  he  spurned  the  threat, 
and  urged  me  to  forfeit  my  uncle's  gift ;  and  by  my 
troth,  aunt,  it  was  not  in  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  to 
hold  me  back,  but  I  did  fear  to  violate  my  duty 
to  you,  and  I  hoped  you  would  grant  my  prayer 
svhen  I  dared  to  make  it  to  you." 

"  Never,  Amy,  never.  I  commend  you  in  as  far 
iS  you  have  acted  wisely  in  the  past ;  and  for  the 
future  I  command  you  to  dismiss  Lovell  Reeve  from 
your  mind." 

"  I  cannot.  I  may  control  the  outward  act,  but 
how  eradicate  the  image  blended  with  every  thought 
and  affection?" 

"This  is  girlish  talk.  Amy.  Be  humble  and 
teachable,  child.  Remember  that  youth  ever  errs  in 
judgment.  Be  guided  by  those,  who  are  both  wise 
and  experienced;  and  then,  Amy,  if  you  should  still 
be  privilegen  with  the  favor  of  worthy  Master  Wick' 


J54  AMY    CRANSTOUN. 

liffe's  love,  you  may  yet  be  mated  to  our  acceptance 
and  your  own  profit." 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  thought  Amy.  Her  aunt  proceed- 
ed, "  I  see  that  thou  ,art  self-wdlled,  but  take  heed  — 
the  judgment  of  Heaven  may  light  upon  thee  — 
consider  duly — go  to  thy  apartment,  and  commune 
wilh  thy  heart." 

Amy  obeyed  with  alacrity ;  for  in  these  commun 
ings  she  found  the  only  indulgence  of  an  affection, 
which  neither  her  conscience  nor  her  judgment 
forbad.  Amy's  conscience,  though  it  did  not  act  in 
obedience  to  the  laws  Madam  Cranstoun  would  have 
Ijrescribed,  was  a  faithful  monitor,  and  Amy  was 
obedient  to  its  monitions.  Clandestine  proceedings 
were  abhorrent  to  the  integrity  of  her  character 
Every  delicate  woman  instinctively  revolts  from  an 
elopement  and  a  secret  marriage.  Amy  had  maintain- 
ed a  firm  negative  to  liOvell's  entreaties.  With  the 
confidence  of  her  most  happy  temper  she  believed 
that  some  favorable  circumstance  would  occur,  some 
influence  come,  she  knew  not  whence,  to  shift  the 
wind  in  her  favor.  But —  when  she  had  put  aside  her 
pride  and  her  maidenly  reserve,  and  freely  confessed 
her  love  to  her  aunt,  and  found  her  unrelenting,  and 
resolved  to  maintain  her  power  in  its  utmost  rigor  — 
Amy  felt  a  spirit  of  insurrection  rising  in  her  heart, 
that  probably,  but  for  the  strange  events  that  followed, 
would  soon  have  broken  out  into  opeii  reb<'llion. 
There  were  throbbings  at  her  heart  at  the  thoutrht  o( 
escape  from  thraUlom;  when,  at  this  treacherous 
moment,   a  servant  taj)ped  nt  the  door  to  announcf 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  156 

■•that  Wimple,  the  Boston  Pedlar,  was  jn  the  hall 
with  his  box  full  of  nick-nacks,  that  he  was  sure 
won  d  pleasure  Miss  Amy's  eye." 

'•  Tell  him,"  said  Amy,  in  a  tone  that  indicated 
nothing  could  pleasure  her  at  that  moment,  "  tell  him 
I  want  nothing." 

"  Pray  do  not  send  him  that  Avord,  Miss  Amy  !  — 
Madam  has  huffed  him  already ;  and  Miss  Prudence 
and  Miss  Tempv  have  bought  nothing  but  knives  and 
Avhalebones.  They  were  sharp  and  stiff  enough 
already! — and  besides,  Wimple  bade  me  tell  you  he 
has  a  violet  ribbon,  just  the  color  of  your  eyes." 

Perhaps  curious  to  ascertain  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
or  it  may  be,  like  most  frail  mortals,  not  deaf  to 
flattery.  Amy  descended  to  the  hall.  She  found  her 
aunt  and  cousins,  attracted  by  the  pretty  assortment 
of  merchandise,  still  hovering  about  the  pedlar's  box, 
inquiring  prices,  cheapening  the  articles  they  meant 
to  buy,  and  vouchsafing  a  few  grains  of  praise  to 
such  as  they  did  not  want. 

"  Ah,  my  service  to  you.  Mistress  Amy,"'  said 
Wimple,  "  it  would  be  ill  luck  to  my  box  to  leave  the 
plantations  without  seeing  you." 

"  And  ill  fortune  to  me.  Wimple.  But  where  is 
the  ribbon  Judith  told  me  of!" 

"  The  ribbon  ! — what  ribbon,  my  young  lady?  — 
ah,  I  remember,"  added  Wimple,  as  the  luring 
message  he  had  transmitted  recurred  to  him,  "it 
should  be  here  —  or  here — it  was  of  the  violet  dye, 
young  lady — the  flower  —  and  something  else  Tve 
seen — looks  as  if  a  drop   from    the  blue   sky   ha6 


A.MV    CR  A.N  ST  OCX 


fallen  ii...   it  —  the  ribbon  is  clean  gone,  but  here  is  a 
pair  of  gloves,  a  nice  fit  for  you." 

"  They  are  just  the  color  I  have  been  looking  for, 
lor  a  full  half  hour  to  no  purpose,"  said  M^ss 
Prudence,  "  so  it  is  but  fair  I  should  have  th  •  firs) 
trial." 

Wimple  looked  disconcerted  —  "  Indeed,  iny  young 
lady,"  he  said,  with  a  discreet  emphasis  on  youngs  noi 
enough  to  imply  sarcasm,  and  just  enough  to  seem 
earnest,  "  indeed,  my  young  lady,  they  are  a  thoughl 
too  small  for  you,"  and  suiting  the  .iction  to  the  word, 
he  adroitly  measured  the  glovf  against  the  back  oi 
Miss  Prudence's  broad,  sinruy  hand  ;  she  turned 
away  satisfied,  or  piqued.  Wimple,  too  politic  to 
leave  a  shadow  on  the  :;i;nd  of  a  customer,  added, 
"  I  will  suit  you.  Miss  Trudy,  next  time,  for  one  of  my 
brethren  in  the  walking  line,  is  expected  from  Acadie 
with  French  nackcries,  and  he'll  be  sure  to  briny 
gloves;  —  such  as  these  with  pretty  devices  are  much 
sought  after,  by  me  Boston  gallants,  for  love-tokens.' 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  gloves  before  you  purchase,' 
mterposed  IVladam  Cranstoun,  whose  ear  was  oflx^ndeo 
by  WimpU'S  professional  vaunt;  "I  do  not  approvt 
these  braveries  that  feed  vanity,  and  draw  truant  eyes 


It  meeting." 


Wimple  adroitly  exchanged  the  gloves  desicfned 
for  Amy,  for  a  pair  embroidered  with  a  iiKunnneiita! 
device,  saying,  "Madam  Cranstoun  \\\\\  crrt.iinly 
approve  the  wholesome  lesson  wisely  wrought  here." 

Madam  Cranstoim  returned  the  gloves  with  a  ool:l 
remark,  that  she  believed  they  would  do  no  harm; 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  15» 

and  Wimj  le  unsuspected  slipped  the  rigat  pair  into 
Amy's  hand,  contriving  as  he  did  so  to  let  her  see  the 
corner  of  a  note  within  the  glove.  "  Never  mind  the 
pay  this  time,  Mistress  Amy,"  he  said.  Amy  under- 
stood him,  dropped  a  silver  penny  in  his  hand,  and 
quickly  disappeared.  She  then  returned  to  her  room, 
bolted  her  door,  •'Tid  kissing  the  gloves,  —  those  fated 
gloves — she  read  the  following  note:  "  My  beloved 
Amy;  and  yet  how  mine,  since  your  own  cruel 
sentence  makes  those  barriers  impassable  which 
tyranny  has  erected  ?  Still  you  are  mine  by  your 
own  most  precious  confession  :  by  vows  registered  i 
Heaven,  and  which  not  all  the  power  of  all  t  t 
uncles  and  aunts  in  Christendom  can  make  void.  1 
have  something  to  communicate  that  I  cannot  trust  to 
paper — meet  me,  I  beseech  you,  on  Tuesday  the  5th, 
at  7  o'clock,  P.  M.,  under  the  elm  tree,  just  beyond 
the  cove.  If  you  refuse  me  this  boon,  I  shall  fear  the 
freezing  atmosphere  in  which  you  live  has  chilled 
the  warm  precincts  of  your  heart.  At  seven,  dear 
Amy,  —  remember,  7  P.  M.  of  Tuesday  the  5th  — 
farewell  till  then." 

"  Tuesday  the  5th"  had  come,  and  "  7  P.  M." 
drew  nigh,  when  Amy  put  on  the  memorable 
gloves,  which  were  wrought  with  a  bunch  of  forget- 
me-nots,  tied  with  a  true-love  knot;  and  shelter- 
ing herself  in  a  dark  silk  cloak  and  hood,  she 
eluded  all  the  argus  eyes  about  the  mansion,  and 
reached  the  place  of  rendezvous.  "  He  is  not  here  !" 
felie  exclaimed,  as  her  foot  touched  the  spot;  "  here  is 
•jet  one  minute  to  spare,"  she  added,  looking   at  Iut 


Ib8  AMYCRANsrOUN. 

watch ;  "  yet  it  should  have  been  Lovell,  not  I,  whc 
came  the  minute  too  soon  —  next  time,"  she  conchided, 
drawing  off  one  of  her  gloves,  "  Lovell  shall  wear 
the  forget-me-not."    ■ 

Poor  Lovell!  he  would  not  have  broken  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  his  appointment ;  but 
the  most  faithful  are  not  exempted  from  the  cross 
accidents  of  life.  His  horse,  in  passing  a  treacherous 
causeway,  had  broken  his  leg.  Lovell  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  abandon  him,  and  hurried  on  whh  all  the 
speed  that  vigorous  and  agile  limbs,  and  a  most 
impatient  spirit,  could  supply ;  but  even  love  cannot 
travel  like  a  sound  horse,  and  when  Lovell  reached 
the  cove  it  was  a  quarter  past  seven.  There  was 
still  enough  of  twilight  left,  for  him  to  discern  the 
print  of  Amy's  little  foot  on  the  white  sand.  He  bent 
and  kissed  it,  then  sprang  up  the  bank  and  onward 
to  the  elm-tree  —  she  was  not  there!  He  thought 
that  in  the  spirit  of  a  sportive  retaliation  for  his 
delay,  she  might  have  hidden  in  some  shaded 
recess.  He  explored  every  recess,  penetrated  every 
possible  hiding-place,  he  pronounced,  and  imploringly 
repeated,  her  name,  but  all  in  vain.  "  She  must  have 
been  here!"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  could  not  mistake  the 
print  of  any  other  foot  for  her's  —  Oh  Amy,  could 
you  not  wait  one  quarter  of  an  hour  for  me!  —  Can 
any  thing  have  happened  to  her?  —  She  may  have 
been  followed  hither  by  some  evil-minded  person!" 
Apprehens'ons  accumulate  most  rapidly  where  the 
safety  of  a  defenceless  object,  and  the  dearest  one  in 
life  is  at  stake.     Lovell  reiterated  Amy's  name  in  a 


AMY   CRANSTOTTN.  159 

voice  ol  agony ;  he  looked  over,  again  and  again,  the 
places  he  had  already  thoroughly  searched  ;  he  then 
returned  to  the  cove,  there  was  no  mark  there  of  a 
returning  footstep;  she  could  not  then  have  gone 
back  that  way.  He  remounted  the  bank,  intending 
to  extend  his  search  farther  up  the  river.  After 
passing  some  willows,  the  shore  was  rocky,  and  jusf 
beyond  the  rocks  was  a  thicket  of  saplings,  and 
tangled  bushes  that  led  to  the  water's  edge.  "She 
could  not  have  passed  here,"  he  said.  Something 
caught  his  eye  at  the  bottom  of  the  rock.  He  descend- 
ed, and  just  on  the  margin  of  the  river  he  found  one 
of  Amy's  gloves,  one  of  the  pair  which  he  had  sent 
by  Wimple,  and  on  the  sand  was  imprinted  the  mark 
of  a  small  foot,  that  must  have  been  recently  there. 
His  head  became  giddy  v/ith  terrific  apprehensions, 
and  now,  as  he  looked  up  the  rock,  he  saw  the  fibrous 
plants  that  grew  from  their  fissures  had  been  freshly 
uprooted,  and  appeared  as  if  their  insufficient  aid  had 
been  resorted  to.  The  mind  will  not  at  once  surren- 
der itself  to  despair.  It  was  barely  possible  that  some 
acquaintance  had  been  sailing  on  the  river,  and  that, 
to  avoid  surmises.  Amy  had  returned  to  town  in  the 
boat.  But  there  was  the  glove!  —  Amy  would  not 
have  carelessly  dropped  his  love-token  —  and  the 
uprooted  plants  !  Still  there  was  a  ray  of  hope,  and 
in  one  half  hour  Lovell  burst  int©  Governor  Cran- 
stoun's  parlor,  and  darting  his  eye  around  the  formal 
circle,  he  explained  its  glance  by  asking  in  one 
breath,  "Is  Amy  here?  —  has  she  returned? — has 
no  one  seen  her?"     The  family  all  rose,  startled  at 


160  A  M  Y    C  P.  '.  N  ,■?  T  O  U  N  . 

his  wild  appearance.     "  Is  the  youth  crazy  ?"  asked 
Madam  Cranstoun. 

"  This  intrusion  is  unlooked  for,  and  manifestly 
indecorous  !"   said  the  governor. 

"  Will  no  one  answer  me?"  exclaimed  Lovell,  and 
snatching  a  hand-bell  fiom  the  table,  he  returned  to 
the  hall  and  rang  it  furiously.  The  servants,  alarmed, 
obeyed  the  summons.  "  Have  any  of  you  seen 
Mistress  Amy?"  he  a'=^ked,  "and  when?  —  and 
where?"  All  looked  amazed,  none  answered.  "  For 
the  love  of  Heaven  speak,  —  go  to  her  room  —  search 
every  where." 

"  Hold,  young  man !"  said  Governor  Cranstoun, 
"  you  are  mad." 

"  Mad  ?  —  I  shall  be  mad  !  — she  is  lost !  —  it  may 
be,  murdered." 

The  last  word,  articulated  as  it  was  in  a  broken 
and  suppressed  voice,  penetrated  to  every  heart,  and 
instantly  every  mouth  was  opened,  every  room  was 
searched,  and  every  corner  of  the  mansion  in  an 
uproar  and  confusion. 

"  I  saw  her  before  tea,"  said  onv,  "  I  saw  her  go 
out  the  side  gate!"  said  another. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Prudence,  "and  I  saw  her  from 
my  window,  and  thought  then  she  was  going  on  a 
wild  goose  chase." 

The  alarm  soon  spread  from  the  governor's  family 
to  the  town ;  alarm-bells  were  rung,  and  the  men  in 
separate  and  small  bands  went  out  on  a  scout  m 
every  direction.  The  se:;rch  was  continued  for  days, 
and  not  relmquished  til   neither  reason  nor  hope  heW 


AMY    CRANSTOriN.  Ill 

out  the  slightest  probability  of  success.  But  after  the 
people  had  returned  to  their  usual  occupations,  and 
.4my'.'  disappearance  had  become  an  old  story,  it 
continued  to  be  as  acutely  felt  by  Lovell  Reeve,  as  at 
the  first  terrible  moment  of  conviction  that  she  was 
gone.  He  abandoned  his  ordinary  pursuits,  forsook 
his  accustomed  haunts  ;  and  worn  and  wasted  wander- 
ed over  the  country,  seeking  and  inquiring,  but 
finding  nothing  to  feed  his  hopes,  which  were  only 
kept  alive  by  the  undying  fires  of  love.  Amy's 
disappearance  was  just  about  the  period  of  the  death 
of  the  heroi-c  Indian,  king  Philip.  A  few  of  his  old 
comrades  still  maintained  a  feeble  resistance  to  the 
English.  Lovell  sometimes  encountered  their  parties 
in  the  fastnesses  of  the  savage  forests.  They  answer- 
ed his  questions  patiently,  and  treated  him  kindly ; 
probably  his  wild  and  haggard  aspect  impressed  them 
with  the  belief  that  he  was  suffering  from  one  of 
those  visitations  of  Heaven,  which  elicit  far  more 
tenderness  and  respect  from  the  savage  than  the 
civilized  man.  On  one  occasion,  at  late  twilight,  he 
had  thrown  himself  down  in  a  little  nook  made  by 
the  turning  of  a  brook  that  ran  rambling  past  it,  and 
wearied  and  exhausted  he  had  opened  his  wallet, 
when  he  heard  some  one  striding  down  the  rocky 
hill  above  him.  From  the  dimensions  of  the  figure 
he  mistook  it  for  that  of  a  man,  but  as  it  approached 
nearer,  he  perceived  it  to  be  a  young  Indian  woman. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back,  her  brow  painfully 
contracted,  and  her  eye  fixed,  and  indicating  a  mind 
abstracted   from    all    outward    things.      She    threw 

14- 


,62  AMY    ORANSTOUN. 

herself  on  the  ground,  almost  at  the  feet  of  Loveii, 
without  seeing  him.  Her  cheek  was  hollow,  ano 
her  limbs  tremulous ;  but  she  seemed  as  if  some 
passionate  grief  obscured  the  sense  of  corporeal 
wants.  Lovell  spoke  to  her;  asked  her  whither  she 
came?  where  she  was  going?  to  which  she  replied, 
in  such  imperfect  English,  that  she  conveyed  no  mean- 
ing to  Lovell.  One  word  alone  he  understood,  and 
that  was  the  name  of  the  famous  Annowon,  the  Indian 
chieftain,  who  had  been  the  companion  of  Philip's 
father,  the  tried  and  trusted  associate  of  Philip  himself, 
and  who,  still  unsubdued,  though  hunted  like  a  beast 
of  prey,  maintained  his  national  independance  in  the 
gloomy  depth  of  a  forest  —  all  that  was  left  of  the 
wide  domain  inherited  from  his  fathers. 

Lovell  offered  the  woman  a  portion  of  his  evening 
meal;  she  took  it  eagerly,  devouring  it  ravenously, 
and  then  drawing  her  blanket  over  her  head,  she 
pillowed  it  on  the  rock,  and  was  soon  lost  in  deep 
sleep.  Poor  Lovell  envied  her  short  oblivion,  and 
continued,  hour  after  hour,  watching  the  stars  on 
their  courses,  till  at  last  nature  overcoming  his  sense 
of  misery,  he  too  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke  in  the 
morning,  the  Indian  woman  had  disappeared.  On 
the  crushed  grass  where  she  had  lain  there  was 
something  that  quickened  Lo veil's  pulses.  He  sprang 
forward,  seized,  and  examined  it  —  it  was  Amy's 
glove.  The  mate  he  had  worn  in  his  bosom,  from 
the  fatal  hour  of  her  disappearance.  But  alas!  the 
woman  who  had  possessed  this  clew  had  gone. 
Ho  shouted,  he  ran  hither  and  yon.  calling  in  th»' 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  ICB 

most  supplicating  voice,  but  he  was  only  answered  by 
the  forest  echoes.  He  had,  however,  obtained  some 
light ;  and  vague,  and  feeble  as  it  was,  it  might  prove 
a  guiding  beam  over  the  weary  waste  that  had 
encompassed  him.  Annowon  either  did  possess  the 
secret  of  Amy's  fate,  or  could  command  it.  This 
conclusion  made,  Lovell  instantly  conceived  a  project, 
and  set  forward  to  execute  it. 


We  return  to  where  we  left  our  little  friend  Amy. 
She  was  startled  from  her  mental  reproaches  of  her 
lover  by  the  plash  of  oars,  and,  turning,  she  saw  a 
canoe  rowing  through  the  cove^  and  stealthily  close 
into  the  shore.  There  were  two  Indians  in  the  canoe, 
but  as  there  were  many  friendly  natives  in  the 
vicinity  of  Providence,  she  was  not  alarmed  till  the 
canoe,  having  turned  the  ledge  of  rocks  and  disap- 
peared, she  saw  the  Indians  coming  up  the  bank 
towards  her.  Escape  was  impossible.  The  one  was 
an  old  man,  the  other  a  youth.  The  young  man 
asked  her  to  come  with  them.  The  elder,  without 
ceremony,  seized  her  arm  and  dragged  her  forward. 
She  resisted  with  all  her  might,  shrieking  the  name 
of  Lovell,  and  vainly  hoping  he  might  be  near 
enough  to  hear  her  voice,  but  that  hope  soon  vanish- 
ed. She  was  thrust  into  the  canoe,  and  it  Avas  rapidly 
rowed  down  the  stream  to  a  swampy  landing-plac •', 
where  the  Indians  disembarked,  drew  their  canoe  up 
into  the  thicket,  and  beo-an  their  scramble  throug-b 


164  AMY    CRANSTOUN. 

the  morass.     In  the  short  time  that  had  passed  since 
Amy  had  relinquished  the  hope  of  a  rescue,  she  had, 
with    her    strong   native   good   sense,    surveyed  her 
position,  and  made  iip  her  mind  a?  to  her  mode  ol 
conduct.     In  carrying  her  resolve  into  execution  she 
was    sustained    by   an    unconquerable,    a    Heaven- 
inspired   cheerfulness    of    spirit,    that   like   a   clear 
.neridian    sun    brightened  even  the  darkest   objects. 
Poor  girl !  she  needed  all  its  power.     The  Indians 
were  amazed  to  see   her,   instead  of  lagging,  press 
forward  without  a  word  or  sigh  of  complaint.     The 
elder  of  her  captors  she  soon  ascertained  to  be  the 
far-famed  Annowon,  now  verging  to  old  age,  but  still 
retaining  many  of  the  attributes  of  vigorous  manhood, 
a  fiery  eye,   an  upright  person,   and  a  firm  step ;  the 
younger  was   Mantunno,   a  young  man  of  two  and 
twenty,  an  exception  to,  rather  than  a  specimen  of  his 
race.     His  aspect  was  that  of  a  man  of  peace  and 
gentleness.     His  voice   was  sympathetic,  as  he  ever 
and   anon   cheered   on    his   captive,  and   where  the 
passes  were  most  difficult  he  carried  her,  sinking  to 
his  knees  in  the  bogs,  till  he  reached  a  firm  foot-hold. 
Thus  they  proceeded  till  they  approa>  nea  a  place, 
which  .still,  after  the  passage  of  more  than  a  century 
and  a  half,  retains  the  name  of  "  Annowon^ s  rock.^' 
This  rock,   or  rather  ledge  of  rocks,  for  it  extends 
from  70  to  80  feet,  was  then  inaccessible  except  from 
one  point,    being  nearly   surrounded    by    a   morass, 
which   before  the  land  was  drained,  was  covered  with 
water.     Near  its  base  th.'  rocks  hare  deep  recesses 
and  shelving  places,  ant'  being  well    hedged   in  \vitJ» 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  T«5 

felled  trees  and  dried  bushes,  they  afforrled  a  sort  of 
sheltering  nest  for  these  wild  denizens  of  the  woods. 
A.  beacon-light  had  penetrated  through  the  tangled 
wood,  guiding  Amy's  step  over  the  slippery  rocks 
and  trembling  mosses,  but  the  way  suddenly  became 
more  difficult;  the  poor  girl's  heart  of  grace  failed, 
and  exhausted  she  sunk  down  and  burst  into  tears. 
The  old  Indian  muttered,  "  Telula  cry?  —  never." 

"  Telula  no  woman,"  replied  the  young  man,  and 
taking  our  poor  little  friend  in  his  arms,  he  strided  on 
through  bush  and  through  brake,  till  emerging 
suddenly,  they  camt  upon  the  access  to  their  wild 
resting-place,  and  as  the  now  unimpeded  light  stream- 
ed cheerfully  up  from  it  and  shone  on  Amy's  face, 
Mantunno  saw  there  a  tolerably  successful  effort  at  a 
smile  of  gratitude,  which  went  very  near  to  his  heart. 
Refreshed  by  her  rest  in  the  Indian's  arms,  and 
encouraged  by  his  kindness,  and  perhaps  too,  stimu- 
lated by  the  wildness  and  novelty  of  the  scene,  —  for 
Amy's  was  a  somewhat  romantic  and  most  buoyant 
spirit,  —  she  descended  the  ledge  of  rocks,  sometimes 
upheld  by  Mantunno,  sometimes  sustain!  ig  herself  on 
a  foothold  that  seemed  scarcely  qualified  to  afford  sup- 
port for  a  bird,  and  sometimes  holding  fabt  by  branches 
of  the  trees  that  here  and  there  had  forced  themselves 
through  the  crevices  of  the  rocks.  Thus  she  reached 
safely  the  broad  base  of  the  ledge,  and  looking  around 
her  at  various  distances,  and  imperfectly,  as  the  fire- 
light glanced  athwart  them,  she  saw  small  groups 
of  Indians.  Near  her  a  bright  fire  was  burnmg 
under  a  caldron,  frtm  which  issued  fumes  so  savory 


m  AMY    CRANSTOtTN. 

that  considering  the  gross  appetites  of  which  commcn 
souls  are  compounded,  they  would  have  been  mucli 
more  like,  than  those  strains  the  poet  magnifies,  to 
"create  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death."  Tending 
this  caldron  was  a  tall,  bony  Indian  girl;  her  features 
were  large,  and  expressive  of  turbulent  passions,  but 
without  a  particle  of  the  feminine  softp~=*!  that  is 
common  to  young  women  of  all  hues. 

She  looked  like  a  vulture,  eager  to  grasp  a  dove  in 
its  talons,  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  poor  little  Amy. 
Some  broken  sentences  she  spoke  to  the  youth,  in  her 
native  tongue,  complaining  of  his  protracted  absence 
and  her  wearisome  solitude,  and  then  turned  her  eye 
again  on  Amy,  as  if  she  longed  to  know,  but  would 
not  ask,  why  that  little  garden-blossom  had  been 
Drought  to  their  wild  home. 

Mantunno  neither  heeded  her  words  nor  her  looks. 
He  was  busied  in  making  a  bed  of  dry  mosses  and 
leaves  for  his  captive,  and  forming  a  bower  for  her, 
by  interweaving  branches  of  the  hemlocks  and  cedars 
that  were  growing  in  abundance  around  them. 

Annowon  called  loudly  fo:  supper,  and  Telula 
served  it,  but  without  eating  herself  or  ofiering  a 
portion  to  Amy  till  bidden  by  Annowon,  when  sh- 
filled  a  wooden  trencher  and  set  it  before  her,  :ind 
Amy,  in  pursuance  of  her  resolution  to  sustain  her 
strength  and  spirits  by  all  human  means,  and  we 
suspect  befriended  by  an  honest  appetite;  ate  as 
heartily  as  if  she  had  been  at  her  uncle's  table  —  the 
best  in  '  Providence  Plantations.'  After  she  had 
finished  her  singular  meal,  shi  thanked  Mantunno 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  167 

for  the  bed  he  had  spread  for  her,  bade  him  "  good 
night,"  in  the  sweetest  tone  of  her  sweet  voice,  and 
crept  into  her  little  bower,  where,  after  commending 
herself  to  God,  she  fell  asleep,  pondering  over  the 
chances  of  reunion  to  Lorall  Reeve.  Oh,  what 
lessons  may  be  learned  from  those  who  act  according 
to  the  dictates  of  wise  nature ! 

Mantunno  laid  himself  down  at  a  little  distance 
from  Amy's  bower,  and  long  into  the  watches  of  the 
night  Telula  observed  his  wakeful  eye  fixed  on  it,  as  a 
miser  watches  the  casket  that  contains  his  treasure. 
But  when  at  last  his  senses  were  locked  in  sleep, 
Telula  drew  near  the  old  man,  who,  as  he  sat  leaning 
against  the  rock,  looked  like  a  portion  of  it,  so  rigid 
were  his  features,  so  sharp  and  immoveable  the 
outline  of  his  bony  figure.  "  Father,"  asked  Telula. 
in  her  own  language,  "  is  this  Yengee  girl  yours,  oi 
Mantunno's  captive?" 

"  Mine." 

"  My  father  is  wise  !  —  "  said  Telula,  in  that  tone 
which  converts  an  affirmation  into  a  negative. 

"  And  why  am  I  not  wise,  Telula." 

"  Was  I  not  wretched  enough  yesterday?" 

"  And  why  more  wretched  now?" 

"  Did  he  ever  pile  the  mosses  for  my  head  to  rest 
upon? — Did  he  ever  weave  a  curtain  around  my 
bed? — Did  he  ever  watch  my  sleep  as  the  eagle 
watches  its  nestling?  Mantunno's  soul  is  as  the 
pale-faces !      He  would  fain  mate  with  them.'"" 

"  What  mean  you,  Telula  f" 


tbS  A  >!  y    C  R  A  N  s  r  O  U  N  . 

"This  girl! — this  girl! — why  did  ye  bring  hel 
hither?" 

The  vehement  tones  of  Telula's  voice,  and  the 
flood  of  tears  she  poured  out,  seemed,  rather  than  her 
words,  to  have  conveyed  her  meaning  to  the  old  man. 
He  fixed  his  eye  oi  her  and  said,  "  Ye  would  not 
surely  wed  your  mother's  sistei's  son  ?" 

"  /  would}' 

"  This  is  worse  than  all ! — I  charge  ye,  Telula,  as 
you  love  your  life,  never  to  speak — never  to  think  of 
this  again." 

"  I  cannot  obey  you."  Both  reverted  to  silence ; 
but  the  subject  was  for  ever  fixed  in  the  minds  of 
both.  The  marriage  of  cousins  was  regarded  as  an 
abomination  by  some,  if  not  by  all  the  Indian  tribes, 
and  their  strict  adherence  to  the  Hebrew  law  in  this 
particular  is  urged  by  some  of  our  antiquaries  as 
among  the  proofs  of  their  descent  from  the  ten  lost 
tribes.  Annowon  had  met  with  losses  and  miseries 
m  every  shape.  His  wives  were  dead — his  children 
had  gone  like  flowers  from  the  hill-side — his  people 
tiad  vanished — his  brother  Philip  had  been  slain  in 
battle,  and  his  body  hacked  in  pieces  by  the  sacrile- 
gious knives  of  the  Yengees — and  some  fifty  followers, 
and  this  barren  rock  on  which  the  sun  shone,  and 
the  showers  fell  in  vain,  was  all  that  was  left  of 
his  tribe  and  their  wide  domain ;  and  now  this 
unlawful  passion  of  the  last  of  his  race  seemed  to 
him  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  sorrows. 

He  had  seized  Amy  from  an  impulse  of  hostility 
to  her  race;  he  had  learned  from  her  lur  high  con 


AMV    CRANSTOUN  Ifib 

nexions,  and  he  now  purposed  eithe:  vO  make  lier  a 
victim  of  his  vengeance,  or  an  instrument  in  obtaining 
his  own  terms  in  the  treaty  that,  in  his  moments  of 
despair,  he  contemplated  making  with  the  English. 
In  the  mean  time,  if  Amy  could  be  made  to  subserve 
the  purpose  of  extinguishing  Telula's  hopes  and 
affection,  so  much  the  better  ; — her  hopes,  she  might ; 
her  affection,  as  it  proved,  could  outlive  hope. 

When  Amy  awoke,  she  felt,  as  every  one  does  in 
coming  out  of  the  kind  oblivion  of  sleep,  the  full 
weight  of  her  calamity.  She  seemed  translated  to  a 
new  world.  Every  object  around  her  was  savage, 
and  the  Indians  themselves  seenied,  not  creatures  of 
her  kind,  but  meet  offspring  of  the  rocks  and  tangled 
forest.  But  as  the  morning  advanced  her  courasfo 
returned.  As  she  felt  the  cheering  influence  of  the 
sun,  and  heard  the  notes  of  familiar  birds — the  voices 
of  old  friends — her  spirit  revived,  and  she  came  forth 
from  her  bower  so  serene,  bright,  and  beautiful,  that 
Mantunno  exclaimed,  in  his  own  language,  "  The 
morning  star !''  Telula's  jealous  ear  caught  the 
words,  and  she  darted  a  glance  first  at  Amy,  and  then 
at  him,  that  made  her  recoil,  and  filled  him  with 
alarm.  He  was  aware  of  Telula's  strong  passions, 
he  was  aware  of  her  love  for  him,  and  that  one  look 
had  revealed  to  him  what  she  might  feel  towards  a 
rival. 

Day  after  day  passed  on,  and  he  never  left  the  rock 
save  when  he  was  sure  that  his  grandfather's  presence 
secured  Amy's  safety.  Te'ula  saw  his  distrust, 
and   it   sunk   deep   into   her   soul.     When   he   was 

13 


70  A  M  Y    C  R  A  N  S  T  O  i:  N . 

pri-sent,  his  eye  continually  rested  on  Amy  u'hnn  he 
was  absent,  it  was  plain  his  heart  still  linpjred  v/ith 
her.  The  brilliant  feathers  of  birds,  their  curious 
eggs,  wild  flowers,'  and  every  pretty  treasure  of  the 
forest,  were  laid  at  her  feet,  and  Mantuiino  was 
sufficiently  rewarded  with  a  kindly  beam  of  Amy's 
blue  eye,  or  a  faint  smile  from  her  bright  lip,  when 
Telula  felt  that  she  would  have  given  life  for  one 
such  proof  of  his  love.  The  miserable  girl's  jealousy 
was  inflamed  in  everj?^  way.  The  old  man  permitted 
and  encouraged  Mantunno's  devotion,  and  Air  y, 
believing,  from  her  own  experience,  love  to  be  he 
most  generous  of  all  sentiments,  cherished  ii  by 
smiles  and  kindness.  Telula  neither  ate  nor  slept. 
Her  form  wasted,  and  her  face  became  so  hagGfnrd, 
that  Amy  shrunk  from  her  as  from  some  blighting 
demon. 

One  evening,  just  at  twilight,  Mantunno  and  Amy 
were  alone  together.  It  was  a  rare  chance,  and  Amy 
eagerly  seized  it  to  urge  a  suit  she  had  long  medi- 
tated. She  entreated  the  young  Indian,  by  all  his 
love  of  his  own  people  and  kindred — by  all  his 
friend.ship  for  her,  to  izuide  her  back  to  her  home. 

"But,"  ho  tendei.y  remonstrated,  "you  have 
neither  father  nor  mother,  sister  nor  brother — they 
make  home."  Amy  wept  bitterly.  "  Oh!"  he  con- 
tinued, in  the  universal  language  of  loving  nature, 
•'  let  my  home  be  thy  home,  ind  my  people  thv 
people !" 

Amy  was  rather  sUiniicd  liy  tliis  proposition. 
3he  soon  recovered  her  self-po.ssession,  'ind   replied 


AMY    CRANSTOriN.  Ui 

.^onrag-eously,  "  Mantunno,  I  have  not,  it  is  true, 
father  nor  mother,  sister  nor  brother,  but  there  is  one 
dearer  to  me  than  all  these,  and  I  am  his  promised 
bride."  The  Indian  threw  himself  on  the  groimd 
and  wished  he  were  dead. 

At  this  moment  Telula,  returning  from  a  half 
frenzied  wandering,  had  let  herself  down  the  rocka 
her  eyes  fixed  on  tliern,  but  unseen  and  unheard  by 
them.  She  heard  Amy  say,  as  she  approached  near 
them,  "  Oh  rise,  my  good  friend,  I  shall  always  love 
you  for  your  kindness" 

Telula  did  not  wait  to  hear  her  out.  One  word 
only,  love,  of  which  she  felt  the  full  import,  penetrated 
to  her  brain.  She  instantly  resolved  on  a  project,  to 
which,  though  most  abhorrent  to  her  national  feel- 
ings, she  was  stimulated  by  her  resentment  towards 
Annowon,  and  by  the  maddening  passions  of  love 
and  jealousy.  She  sprang  towards  Amy,  tore  apart 
a  ribbon,  by  which  was  suspended  the  glove,  Lovell's 
precious  gift,  and  thrusting  it  into  her  own  bosom, 
mounted  the  rock  like  a  wild-cat,  and  went  forth 
'brooding  on  her  purpose,  in  her  better  mind  dismiss- 
ing it,  and  then  again  goaded  on  by  her  insane 
passion,  seeking  the  means  of  its  execution. 

Old  Annowon  was  afflicted  and  soured  by  Telula  s 
protracted  absence.  He  became  sullen  and  crabbed, 
and  wreaked  his  bitter  feelings  on  poor  Amy.  He 
imposed  domestic  offices  on  her,  compelled  her  to 
bring  water,  and  feed  the  fire.  Mantunno  saw  her 
fragile  form  bending  under  ourdens ;  he  felt,  like  thf 
lover  in  the  play,  that  "  suci.  baseness  ne'er  had  likf 


iTi  AMY    CRANSTOUN. 

executor,''  and  fain  would  he  have  givt  i  the  sire  iij;esl 
proof  of  love  a  savage  could  give,  by  performing 
these  ignoble,  womanly  offices  himself;  but  the  old 
man  harshly  forbade  him,  and  asked  him  '•  when  it 
was  he  served  Telula?" 

Poor  Amy's  heart  sunk  as  her  hopes  abated.     She 
was  yet  far  from  despairing,  but  each  day  seemed  an 
age  to  her.     Mantunno's  kindness  was  undiminished, 
but  now  her  soul  revolted  from  it ;  even  the  crabbed 
ness  of  the  old  man  was  more  tolerable  to  her.     Stil- 
save  in  the  tears  that  would  unbidden  now  and  thei 
steal  from  her  eyes,  she  did  not  betray  the  sadness  of 
her  heart. 

Two  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  nothing  was  yet 
heard  of  Telula,  though  Annowon  had  sought  her  in 
all  the  forest  haunts  of  his  dispersed  and  hunted  tribe. 
He  returned  one  niglit,  wearied,  and  more  sad  than 
sullen,  threw  himself  on  his  mat.  Amy  heard  him 
groaning,  and  at  intervals  repeating  the  same  words, 
"  What  says  he?"  she  asked  of  Mantunno. 

He  repeats,  "  my  people  !  my  children  !  Telula  ! 
all  gone!"  With  the  instinct  of  her  sex,  Amy  tried 
to  comfort  him.  She  offend  him  his  favorite  drink, 
unbidden  prepared  his  evening  meal,  and.  witli 
earnest  words,  prayed  him  to  take  it.  He  declinod 
her  kindness,  but  he  seemed  touched  by  it,  and 
drawing  her  towards  him,  he  said,  "Ah,  child,  bright 
days  are  written  on  thy  smooth  brow,  and  the  promise 
of  friends  and   lovers  stamped   on  thy  beautiful  face." 

"Oh,  tlien,"  said  Amy,  eagerly  availing  herself  of 
the    rlrst    auspicious    moment,    "  restore    me    to    niv 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  173 

frii?nds  —  do  not  make  me  Avear  out  my  life  in 
bondage  and  do  ng  strange  tasks.  I  shall  soon  die 
if  I  hear  not  the  voices  of  my  kindred!  —  Oh,  think 
how  hard  it  must  be  not  to  hear  the  language  of  your 
own  people  !  ■not  to  sit  to  eat  with  those  of  your  own 
color !  to  live  on  without  a  smile,  and  die  without  one 
to  mourn  you." 

"Amy!  Amy!"  exclaimed  Mantun  no  involuntarily. 

The  exclamation  seemed  to  dry  the  fountain  ol 
pity  that  Amy  had  opened  in  the  old  man's  bosom. 
"Ye  are  the  child  of  my  enemies,"  he  said,  "and 
like  all  the  pale-faces,  ye  have  misery  and  ruin  in 
your  track — go  to  your  bed,  child  —  go  to  your  bed." 

Amy  crept  into  her  little  bower,  and  in  the  anguish 
of  her  heart  she  mentally  reproached  her  lover. 
"Ah!"  she  thought,  "had  I  been  Lovell,  and  he 
been  me,  I  would  not  have  rested  till  every  white 
man  in  the  colonies  was  on  foot,  till  every  den  in  the 
forest  was  searched ;  but,  alas !  alas !  men  do  not 
love  as  we  love!"  Far  into  the  night  she  revolved 
these  bitter  thoughts,  but  finally,  true  to  herself  and 
true  to  Lovell,  she  fell  asleep,  alleging  very  good 
reasons  why  Lovell  could  not  have  found  her. 

While  all  around  him  slept,  Annow^on  was  awake, 
gloomily  pondering  the  past,  more  gloomily  the 
future.  The  evening  fire  had  gone  out.  The  moon 
looked  down  smilingly,  just  as  she  had  looked  in  his 
happiest  days,  on  the  stern  home  of  the  old  warrior. 
Her  silvery  beams  fell  on  the  branches  as  they  waved 
in  the  1  ght  breeze;  shone  on  the  flowers  that,  project- 
ing fro  1  the  crevices,  hung  over  the  rocks ;  penetrated 

16" 


L74  AMY    (Mt  AN^TOUN. 

even  to  the  recess  where  Annowon's  trusty  followeis 
were  sleeping;  defined  Mantunno's  graceful  figure  as 
he  lay  near  Amy's  bower,  dreaming  of  the  lovely 
form  within  it;  fell  on  that  form  modestly  wrapped  in 
a  cloak,  and  played  over  her  fair  cheek  and  bright 
hair  —  '.he  fairest  and  brig»  test  that  ever  rested  on  a 
leafy  pillow  in  the  wild  world. 

Annowon  was  suddenly  startled  from  his  abstraction, 
and  looking  up,  he  saw  Telula  creeping  slowly  and 
cautiously  down  the  rocks.  Annowon,  as  soon  as  he 
had  recovered  from  his  first  joyful  sensation  of 
surprise,  perceived  the  sliadow  of  some  person  follow- 
ing her  cast  back  upon  the  rock,  and  then  another, 
and  another,  but  these  shadows  were  so  confounded 
with  that  of  a  large  basket  that  Telula  carried,  and 
constantly  shifted  from  arm  to  arm,  that  they  convey- 
ed no  definite  information  to  Annowon ;  and  he,  as 
little  expecting  treachery  from  Telula  as  from  his 
own  soul,  was  not  alarmed,  till  an  Indian,  instantly 
followed  by  others,  grasped  the  branch  of  a  tree, 
swung  down  the  last  descent,  and  round  an  angle 
of  the  rock,  and  darting  into  the  recess  where  Anno- 
won's followers  were  sleeping,  butchered  them.  At 
the  same  moment  the  old  chief  himself  was  seized. 
Telula  rushed  past  him,  rent  open  the  bower  as  if  it 
were  but  a  spider's  web,  drew  a  hatchet  from  beneath 
her  blanket,  and  raised  her  arm  over  Amy ;  Mantun- 
no  sprang  forward  and  inter]iosed  his  person  in  time 
to  save  Amy — by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  life! 

As  his  body  fell  at  her  feet,  Telula  recoiled,  then 
ngarn  raising  her  arm  and  floiirishinsr  'h(>  hatchet   in 


AMY    CRANSTOJIN.  I7» 

tk,  ail,  she  purposed  surer  aim  at  the  "  Yengee  girl," 
but  Amy  was  already  far  up  the  rock,  in  the  arms  o. 
Lovell  Reeve !  Telula  gazed  after  her,  she  felt 
Mantunno's  warm  blood  dripping  from  her  hatchet  on 
her  arm,  and  sunk  senseless  beside  his  body. 

It  had  all  passed  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  that 
uproots  and  tears  asunder  that  which  was  fast  rooted 
and  bound  together.  Annowon  turned  his  eye  from 
the  bloody  tragedj^  and  saw  himself  in  the  hands  of 
Captain  Church,  the  famous  vanquisher  of  King 
Philip.  He  then,  as  history  records,  took  from  hii 
bosom  two  most  curious  bits  of  Avampum,  and  som^ 
other  consecrated  trifles,  that  had  been  a  portion  of 
Philip's  royal  insignia,  and  kneeling,  surrendered 
them  to  Church,  with  the  ceremony  and  feeling  with 
which  a  faithful  follower  yields  the  banner  of  his  chief- 
tain. He  then  simk  down,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  saying,  "I  have  done — I  am  the  last  of 
my  people !" 

We  have  not  space  to  relate  Annowon' s  fate.  It 
fills  one  of  those  pages  that  we  could  wish  expunged 
from  the  history  of  christians. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  detail  the  particulars  that  led 
to  the  catastrophe  we  have  described.  We  have 
faintly  intimated  them.  The  curious  reader  will  find 
'  them  at  large  in  the  contemporaneous  histories.  Wfi 
have  added  some  circumstances  not  there  recorded, 
and  we  have  learned  from  thai  veracious  source,  "  the 
best  authority,"  that  Telula  was  afterAA'ards  seen  on 
the  shores  of  the  blue  Ontario,  where,  among  the  wild 


ire  AMY    CRANSTOtJN. 

people  who  confound  inspiration  with  insanity,  she 
was  reverenced  and  cherished. 

Lovell  Reeve,  with  his  rescued  betrothed,  proceed- 
ed forthwith  to  (iovernor  Cranstoun's,  and  no  one 
thenceforth  opposing  his  right  to  hsr,  it  was  soon 
confirmed  by  the  solemn  ceremonial  of  marriage. 
The  only  exception  to  the  general  kindness  lavished 
on  Amy,  was  a  remark  from  one  of  her  discreet 
cousins,  —  on  whom  a  wedding  seems  not  to  have  had 
its  usual  benign  influence,  —  "that  young  ladies  must 
expect  to  pay  dearly  for  evening  assignations  with 
ciandestiae  lovers." 


4   SRA-PICTURE 


BY  GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 


Come — sit  wi.h  me,  here  by  these  dark  old  rocks, 
Where,  as  they  heave  in,  you  may  dip  your  feei 
Into  the  gurgling  waters.     This  while  shaft 
'Gainst  which  we  lean  —  the  beacon  to  these  seas  — 
Whose  sleepless  eye  looks  ever  through  the  storm 
And  beauty  of  the  night,  undimmed  —  the  same — 
I've  seen  lashed,  to  its  lantern,  by  the  surf 
Of  this  mad  ocean,  when  the  winds  were  up 
In  their  loud  revel. 

I  remember  me, 
While  yet  a  boy,  I  gloried  in  the  scenes 
Of  these  sea-tempests — and  I  oft-times  sought 
These  gray  rocks,  to  look  ou>  upon  the  sky. 
When  the  waves  mounted  to  it,  as  to  meet 
The  stooping  clouds. 

Once,  when  the  year  was  dim, 
And  the  heavens  curtained  with  the  coming  storm, 
So  deep,  and  so  lik-  night,  that  men  had  pass'd 


78  \  sr.v  iMcxr  r  e. 

Into  their  homes,  and  barred  their  very  doors, 
As  against  something  fearlul  —  1  had  crept, 
Full  of  that  young  but  terrible  delight 
That  mastered  me  in  those  days,  to  these  clifis, 
And  in  a  shelter'd  nook,  far  over  us,  fat  down 
To  watch  the  mustering  spirits  of  the  gale. 

Far  out  on  the  4iorizon  1  beheld 
One  lone  ship  —  on  its  darkening  arch  relieved, 
As  some  huge  white-winged  bird,  just  quivering 
Its  pinions  o'er  the  billow  it  had  spurned 
In  its  uprising.  —  As  I  looked,  it  grew 
Upon  my  vision,  till  a  stately  hark, 
With  its  unmastered  canvass,  through  the  foam, 
Right  on  the  stormy  pathway  of  my  eye, 
Came  plunging  on.  —  The  tempest  now  was  loud — 
And  its  far  voice,  from  crest  to  crest  of  waves. 
Was  calling  through  the  deep — in  that  stern  sound. 
The  everlasting  anthem  of  the  sea. 
When  storm  stirs  all  its  music  —  and  here  —  here — 
Upon  these  iron  rocks  it  threw  itself, 
Like  leaping  thunder,  till  I  felt  my  sea- 
Quake  under  me,  as  though  the  frighted  earth 
Moved  on  its  great  foundations ! 

She  came  on  — 


Helmless  and  masterless  —  yet  I  could  see 
From  my  far  aerie  there  —  where  I  was  held, 
As  by  some  wand  that  spelled  me  into  stone, 
Stirless  and  tonguelesf  'mid  the  wild  uproar  — 
Thedi  idi'ckcrowde.  —and  could  trace  faint  forms— 


A   SEA    PICTURE.  179 

A.nd  ?ome  in  white  robes,  flashinf?  throusfh  the  dull 
And  dizzy  air  the  thundering  waves  threw  up, 
Till  the  mist  bathed  my  brow. 

I  heard  no  sound 
From  the  upheaving  vessel  —  though  I  saw 
Forms  multitudinous,  with  arms  upflung, 
And  faces  lifted  to  the  pouring  sky — 
For  such  was  the  hoarse  bellowing  of  the  tide, 
And  the  commingled  roaring  of  the  wind, 
That  the  scared  sea-bird,  as  his  dripping  wing 
Flapped  in  my  face  upon  his  circling  flight, 
Passed  with  his  shriek  unheard. 

I  saw  her  now, 
Tumbling  beneath  me.     But  no  hope  was  there ! 
Already  half  a  wreck,  the  noble  bark 
Had  struggled  Avith  the  storm,  through  drifting  cloud 
And  measureless  abyss ;  till,  tired  and  torn. 
She  bent  despairingly,  before  the  gale. 
Seeking  a  quick  destruction.  —  I  could  see  — 
Perched  on  that  roaring  pinnacle,  how  blind 
And  aimless  she  swooped  through  the  tossing  foam, 
With  rudder  racked — rent  mast — and  shattered  sail 
But  one  mast  staggermg  stood  —  and  at  its  peak 
A  black  flag,  through  the  thin  and  hurrying  clouds, 
Stream'd  to  the  troubled  air; — ^beneath  it  clung 
To  the  mad,  rocking  spire,  with  naked  arm, 
A  lone,  drenchec  sea-boy,  with  his  reeking  hair, 
Now  in  the  rain:loud  dashed,  and  now  in  foam' 
Oft  on  the  giddy  yar'   where  yet  the  sail 


I 


180  A   SEA-PICTURE. 

Flared  with  its  lashing-  remnant  to  the  sky 

1  saw  the  crouching  sailor 

In  impotent  essay. at  seme  wild  grasp, 

His  thought  had  whispered  in  those  intervals 

Of  light,  that  flash  on  life's  extremities  — 

For  hope  is  ever  handmaid  to  despair ! 

Yet  nearer  !  — and  1  saw  the  straggling  ropes 
Flung  on  the  rattling  gust  —  and  a  rent  flag 
Was  shivering  from  the  shrouds — but  nothing  there 
To  tell  the  story  of  its  land.     Then  as  she  rose 
Upon  some  mountain  billow,  1  could  see 
A  quick  smoke  darting  through  the  scattering  foam, 
Belched  from  some  signal  gun,  that  a  mad  hand 
Had  touched,  in  desperation  — but  no  sound 
Boomed  through  the  waters,  and  the  roaring  wind. 

At  length  she  struck  —  and  I  could  see  the  crew 
Leap  at  the  quick  revulsion  —  and  uplifting 
Their  arms,  as  if  in  gladness,  that  an  end 
Had  come  upon  their  agony — as  if 
They  shouted  o'er  the  yawning  sepulchres 
That  they  had  dreamt  of,  with  a  wilderin*  hope 
Of  some  last  strange  salvation — as  though  now 
They  hailed  their  very  graves,  with  the  quick  eye 
And  babbling  madness  of  despairing  hearts, 
When  the  dark  leap  must  come. 

TIiHin  the  side 
Of  the  lurched  ship  stood  one,  whose  convulsed  aiui 
8traine«l  to  1  'r  b  som  something,  that  it  held 


A  SEA- PICTURE.  I8l 

With  an  unearthly  energy — that  grasp 

Which  Nature  owns  its  strongest!  —  her  lank  hair 

Part  to  the  tempest  streamed,  and  part  her  breast 

Received  to  veil  her  offspring,  and  to  dull 

Its  faint  dies  for  lost  sustenance.     One  glance 

Told  me  the  tale.  —  The  mother  and  the  child 

Passing,  unparted,  to  a  common  grave ! 

1  look  d — and  they  were  gone — and  in  their  place 
Stood  tv  o  —  gazing  the  last  time  into  eyes 
That  Wore  the  only  language  of  their  hearts. 
In  that  last  hour  of  agony.  —  I  saw 
Them,  hand  in  hand,  approach  the  reeking  side 
Of  the  rent  bark  —  and  looking  the  last  time 
Into  each  other's  faces,  and  then  down 
Into  the  gulphing  waters,  they  did  leap, 
With  fingers  yet  entangled — to  the  waves! 
And  hearts  unseparate — defying  there, 
In  love's  undying  unison,  the  pall 
That  death  would  cast  round  their  fidelity! 

Again  —  upon  the  parting  deck  stood  one — 
An  old  man  —  with  w^hite  hair — and  terror-struck. 
He  was  a  miser  —  and  each  palsied  hand 
Clutched  the  just  bursting  bag,  as  though  he  felt 
That  he  might  bribe  death  with  such  glittering  coin. 
To  pass  such  meagre  prey  —  or,  if  he  died. 
The  pang  would  be  less  bitter  with  his  gold! 
But  ah!   no  purchase  from  that  sentence  came  — 
I  saw  the  sweltering  sea  leap  over  him. 
And  snatch  his  treasures  to  its  sunless  caves. 

16 


182  A   SEA- PICTURE. 

The  throng  had  pat^sed,  as  it  seem'd,  under  me, 
Into  one  grave.     Some  laiu  them  down  and  died, 
In  their  own  iear'5  intensity — and  some, 
Folding  rude  cloaks  around  them,  bowed  their  heads, 
And  turned  their  cringing  backs  upon  the  sea, 
That   smote  them  to  their  death — as  though,  thus 

cowled, 
And  bending,  to  escape  the  billow's  wraih. 

And  now  upon  the  desolated  deck 
But  two  remained  —  one  was  a  dark-brown  man,— 
A  son  of  Solitude,  like  those  that  roamed 
Once  through  these  sounding  woods.    He  stood  aione;^ 
His  red  arms  folded  on  his  stalwart  breast. 
And  his  bronzed  face  bent  down,  with  moveless  gaze, 
Upon  the  hurrying  waters.  —  At  his  side, 
Went  to  and  fro  a  madman,  with  his  hands 
Flung  out  in  supplication,  and,  anon, 
Tearing  with  frenzy  at  his  knotted  hair, 
To  give  it  to  the  winds  !  — With  leaping  step 
He  traversed  the  last  timbers — and  at  times 
Waved  round  his  head,  e.vulting,  the  remains 
Of  the  last  tattered  flag. 

The  Indian's  gaze, 
Unchanging,  as  himself,  upon  the  gulph 
Still  rested  —  as  of  a  charmed  statue's  eye! 
He  saw  no  terror  in  the  passage.     'Twasto  him 
Hut  a  wild  journey  to  the  spirit  land, 
Where  he  should  meet  h  s  lathers. 


A   8EA-PICTITUE. 


But  enough — 


My  vision,  as  enchanted,  still  glared  down 
Upon  these  ringing  ana  insatiate  rocks. 
The  storm  still  howled  —  and  as  the  rattling  rain 
Beat  in  my  face,  my  sight,  yet  more  intense 
Grew  10  liie  groaning  ship  —  till  she  went  down, 
And  the  wide  sea  poured  in,  in  victory, 
Shouting  and  trampling  o'er  her  sepulchre  I 


l:'^ 


THE    HARMONY    OF    NATURE, 


AND 


SOVEREIGNTY  OF  MAN. 


There  is  joy  among  the  icebergs,  when  ends  the 
polar  night, 

And  their  mighty  crystals  flash  in  the  newly  waken- 
ed light ; 

There  is  joy  in  shouting  Egypt,  when  through  its 
valleys  wide, 

Pours  the  fountain  of  her  harvests  its  renovated  tide ; 

Through  each  zone  that  belts  the  earth,  Nature  sings 
a  gladsome  song. 

In  numbers  sweetly  simple  or  magnificently  strong; 

By  the  well-spring  in  the  desert,  beneath  the  spread- 
ing palm. 

Her  voice  rings  sweet  and  holy  th-ough  an  atmos- 
phere of  balm ; 

Where  Niagara  the  burthen  of  liis  congrrgaled 
springs 

Hurls  down  the  y  iwning  chasm,  liow  gloriously  she 
sings, 


THE    HARMONY   OF   NATURE.  IT, 

Afar   in   leafy   forests,    where  the    axe   hath    never 

swung, 
Where   the    Indian   roams   sole    monarch,    and  the 

panther  rears  her  young  ; 
In  meadows  of  the  wilderness,  where  proudly  in  the 

air, 
The  elk  his  antleis  tosseth,  and  the  bison  makes  his 

lair; 
From  heights,    where   the   strong   eagle   sways  his 

pinions  on  the  cloud, 
And  valleys,  where  the  vine's  bright  leaves  the  blush- 
ing clusters  shroud ; 
From  the  teeming  lap  of  Ocean,  where  rest  the  sunny 

isles. 
And  white   winged  barks  are  laden  with  their  rich 

and  mellow  spoils ; 
With  trumpet-tongued  sublimity,  or  low  and  silvc 

voice. 
Nature  swells  the  mighty  anthem,  whose  burthen  is, 

—  Rejoice! 
Oh!    life  sustaining  Air.    bounding  Ocean,  verdant 

Earth. 
The  universe  is  ringing  with  the  music  of  your  mirth; 
Yet  wide  as  is  your  empire,  and  A'^ast  as  is  your  plan, 
Ye  are  but  vassal  servitors,  that  minister  to  Man ; 
Tis  true,  in  fierce  rebellion,  there  are  moments  when 

ye  rise. 
And  crush   the  weak    defences  he    hath  labored  to 

levise ; 
Yet  past  your  burst  of  anger,  again  ye  ovm  his  sway 
Ye  come  to  him  with  trib  ate,  ye  hear  him  and  obey, 

16- 


180  THK   ITAIOKJNV   or   NATURE. 

He  heweth  down  and   rendeth  the   patriarchs  of  the 

woods, 
He  fashions  them' to  palaces,  that  bear  him  on  the 

floods ; 
Next  the  boundless  realms  of  air  must  be  subject  to 

his  pride, 
And  lo!  the  startled  eagle  beholds  him  at  his  side. 
On  earth  a  mighty  agent  propels  him  with  a  speed, 
That  mocks  the  fleetest  gallop  of  the  desert-nurtured 

steed ; 
Intelligence  his  sceptre,  his  weapon,  and  his  shield, 
Who  shall   limit  the  results,  that  his  enterprise  may 

yield. 
How  glorious  is  hu  heritage,  how  loud  should  be  his 

praise. 
When  even  things  inanimate,  a  song  of  gladness  raise: 
The  bounteous  gifts  of  Providence  for  ever  round 

him  shower, 
For  him  the  wild  birds  carol,   and  for  him  the  burst-  ^ 

ing  flower, 
From  the  jewellec  arch  of  heaven,  to  the  daisy-check- 
ered sod. 
Is  one  continued  I  inquel  for  the  m  ister-piece  of  Gou 

J.  B. 


1  HE   BRIDE    OF    LAMMERMOOR. 


Hardly  had  Miss  Ashlon  dropped  the  pen,  when 
the  door  of  the  apartment  flew  open,  and  the  Master 
of  Ravanswood  entered. 

*  #  #  *  « 

He  planted  himself  full  in  the  middle  of  the  apart- 
ment, opposite  to  the  table  at  which  Lucy  was  seated, 
on  whom,  as  if  she  had  been  alone  in  the  cham- 
ber, he  bent  his  eyes  with  a  ming-led  expression 
of  deep  grief  and  indignation.  His  dark-colored 
riding  cloak,  displaced  from  one  shoulder,  hung 
around  one  side  of  his  person  in  the  ample  folds  ol 
the  Spanish  mantle.  The  rest  of  his  rich  dress  was 
travel-soiled  and  deranged  by  hard  riding.  He  had 
a  sword  by  his  side  and  pistols  in  his  belt. 

•  «  »  *  • 

The  matted  and  dishevelled  locks  of  hair,  which 
escaped  from  under  his  hat,  together  with  his  fixed 
and  unmoved  posture,  made  his  head  more  resembl« 
a  marble  bust  than  that  of  a  living  man.  He  said  not 
a  single  word,  and  there  was  a  deep  silence  in  the 
company  for  more  than  two  minutes. 

It  was  broken  by  Lady  Ashton,  who  in  that  space 
partly  recovered  her  natural  audacity.     She  demand- 
ed to  know  the  cause  of  this  unauthorized  intrusion 
Sir  Waller  Scott. — Bride  of  Lammermnai ,  ch.  xxiiJ, 


DICK    MOJN.    THE    PEDLAR; 

OB, 

THE  YANKEE    TRICK. 

BY  WILLIAM  L.  STONB. 


'^^  hath  ribands  of  all  colors  i'  the  rainbow;  points,  more  than  all  the 
lawyers  In  Bohemia  can  learnedly  li;indlp  ;  though  they  came  to  him  by 
llie  gross ;  initios,  caddices,  caniLi  ics,  lawns  :  Why,  he  sln;;.s  them  over, 
as  (hey  were  gods  and  goddesses  ;  he  so  chants  to  the  sleeve-l)and,  and 
the  work  about  the  square  on't.  Shakspeare. 

Well;  if  I  be  served  another  such  trick,  I'll  have  my  brains  la'cn  and 
buttered,  and  given  to  a  dog  for  a  new-year's  gift.  Idem. 


"  Some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and 
some  have  greatness  thmst  upon  tliem,"  is  a  proposi- 
tion of  Master  Shakspeare's,  which  may  or  not  be 
illustrated  in  the  course  of  the  present  narrative. 
Richard  Moon  —  or  rather  Dick  Moon  —  lor  he  was 
always  called  Dick  in  Connecticut  —  was  the  fourtn 
of  the  sever  sons  of  Ezra  Moon,  Esq.,  of  Pettypaug, 
a  parish  in  the  town  of  Saybrook,  memorable  for  the 
g^allunt  deftnce   made  by  its   inhabitants  against  the 


I 


n  I  r  K    M  o  n  \ ,    T  ri  E    P  E  D  L  A  R .  189 

Britisli  forces,  during  the  late  war.  I  am  thus  parti- 
cular in  the  outset,  and  have  introduced  my  hero  to 
the  reader  thus  early,  in  compliance  with  the  recom- 
mendation ol'  Doctor  Watts,  that  in  writing  biography, 
every  thing  should  be  placed  in  the  precise  order  in 
which  it  occurred.  Dick  Moon,  then,  as  it  has  just 
been  remarked,  was  the  son  of  Ezra  Moon,  a  very 
worthy  and  estimable  man,  a  stanch  supporter  of 
Jefferson,  and  of  course  a  warm  and  efficient  friend  of 
General  Hart,  of  Saybrook,  for  whom  he  annually 
voted  for  governor,  until  the  decease  of  that  faithful, 
but  always  unsuccessful,  candidate  for  the  executive 
honors  of  Connecticut.  Too  wise,  however,  to  meddle 
with  politics  to  the  detriment  of  his  fortune,  'Squire 
Moon  so  well  managed  his  temporal  affairs,  as  not 
only  to  provide  comfortably  for  his  large  family,  but 
to  add  somewhat  every  year  to  the  small  patrimony 
inherited  from  his  father.  His  sons,  moreover,  gave 
early  evidence  of  activity,  industry,  and  intelligence. 
But  of  all  the  number,  Dick  was  the  shrewdest  in 
getting  money,  the  most  successful  in  its  keeping,  and 
the  most  fortunate  in  providing  for  its  steady  accu- 
mulation. 

The  craniological  theories  of  Gall  and  Spurzheim 
had  only  been  heard  of  from  afar,  when  Dick  Moon 
was  in  his  childhood,  and  the  bumps  upon  the  heads 
of  young  and  old,  were  in  those  days  left  unexamined, 
save  when  arising  from  an  accident,  or  a  quarrel ; 
but  had  the  world  then  been  blessed  with  those 
scientific  itinerants,  who  read  character  in  the  os  fron- 
tis  or  the  occiput    instead  of  the  eyes,  and  judge  of 


m  DICK   MOON,    THE    PEDLAR. 

propensities  by  feeling  the  head,  instead  of  studying 
the  heart,  our  hero's  organ  of  acquisitiveness  would 
doubtless  have  been  declared  very  strongly  develoj^'cd. 
The  acquisition  of  money  was  indeed  a  passion  with 
him,  and  from  the  moment  he  began  to  understand  its 
value,  his  principal  study  was  how  to  obtain  it  —  at 
first  by  solicitation,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  been  induct- 
ed into  the  mysteries  of  exchange,  by  traffic  and 
barter.  Indeed,  had  Richard  Moon  grown  up  with 
as  little  principle  as  Hugh  Audley,  so  well  did  he 
understand  the  art  of  making  money  multiply  itself, 
that  he  might  have  equalled  that  great  Shylock  of 
England,  who  flourished  through  the  reigns  of  the 
first  two  of  the  Stuarts. 

An  anecdote  will  here  at  once  illustrate  his  pc7i- 
chant  for  money  even  in  his  childhood,  and  his 
ingenuity  in  the  pursuit  of  his  object.  At  a  very 
early  age  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  asking  every 
visiter  at  his  father's  house  to  give  him  a  cent.  The 
request  being  so  moderate,  was  of  course  never 
denied  when  copper  change  was  at  hand,  and  Dick 
was  careful  to  stow  away  every  penny.  His  parents, 
being,  as  we  have  already  seen,  thrifty  farmers,  and 
"  well  to  do  in  the  world,"  as  the  practice  contiiuu'il, 
began  to  feel  no  small  degree  of  mortification  upon 
the  subject — often  remonstrating  with  their  little  son 
against  his  conduct,  biit  to  no  jiurpose.  Although  he 
might  promise  reformation,  yt't  on  the  .■i|)peiir;ince  of 
the  next  visiter,  he  would  he  sure  to  watch  for  an 
opportunity  to  ask  for  another  cent.  His  parents  at 
length  determined  upon  a  decisive  course  of  conduct 


b 


DICK    MOON,    THE    PEDLAR.  m 

HI  the  premises,  and  Dick  was  solemnly  admonished, 
and  threatened  with  positive  and  severe  chastisement 
in  the  event  of  his  repeating  the  oflence.  The 
appearance  of  the  next  visiter  was  a  severe  trial  to  the 
urchin.  He  was  observed  to  be  unusually  exercised 
m  his  mind,  and  fidgetted  about  with  great  uneasiness. 
Once  or  tv/ice  he  seemed  almost  upon  the  point  of 
speaking  out  his  accustomed  request,  when  a  stern 
glance  from  his  father  checked  the  words  ere  they 
had  quite  dropped  from  his  tongue.  But  Yankee 
ingenuity  is  often  an  overmatch  for  any  thing,  and 
Dick  at  length  triumphed.  Edging  up  towards,  the 
stranger,  cunningly  attracting  his  attention  by  a 
significant  leer  md  at  the  same  time  casting  a  min- 
gled look  of  arcnness  and  terror  upon  his  father,  in 
the  legitimate  dialect  of  "  down  east,"  he  said,  "  1 
guess  you  don't  know  nobody  who  would  be  willing 
to  lend  me  a  cent,  do  you!"  His  victory  was  com- 
plete, for  instead  of  a  rebuke,  a  burst  of  laughter 
followed  alike  from  the  'Squire,  and  those  who  had 
observed  the  workings  of  the  mind  of  little  Dick,  and 
his  evasion  of  the  letter  of  the  command. 

Still,  although  so  thoroughly  intent  upon  money- 
Slathering-,  it  must  be  observed  in  justice  to  Dick, 
that  he  was  not  prompted  thereunto  by  avarice,  for 
there  was  nothing  of  meanness  in  his  composition. 
It  was  never  known,  either  in  the  days  of  his  juve- 
nility, or  of  his  manhood,  that  he  resorted  to  unfair 
or  dishonorable  means  to  gratify  his  favorite  passion 
of  "  putting  money  in  his  purse/'  but  in  ihe  way  oi 
trade  and  barter,  where  both  parties  were  supposed  to 


J«  DICK   MOON,   IHK    PF.DLaK. 

have   their    eyes  open,  he  thought  it  not  wrong  tc 
practice  upon  the  maxim,  that 


A  thing 


Is  worth  as  much  as  it  will  bring: 

And  never  was  son  of  Adam,  young  or  old,  more 
prolific  in  expedients  to  turn  a  penny  with  success. 
He  was  full  of  good  humor,  adroit  in  his  little 
schemes  of  traffic  and  gain,  and  persuasive  with  his 
tongue  —  and  hence  a  general  favorite,  not  only 
among  his  own  brothers  and  sisters,  but  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  among  his  school-fellows,  —  for  'Squire 
Moon  was  careful  to  give  his  family  the  advantage  of 
the  best  schools  in  Pettypaug.  These  characteristics, 
it  may  be  thought,  were  not  altogether  in  keeping 
with  Dick's  ardent  pursuit  of  the  root  of  evil ;  but  it 
must  be  remarked,  that  at  no  period  of  his  life  did  h^e 
ever  exhibit  a  solitary  token  of  the  miser's  disposition. 
On  the  contrary,  he  displayed  a  thousand  generous 
traits  and  amiable  qualities.  Possessing  always  a 
fine  flow  of  spirits,  ready  in  repartee,  and  quick  in 
his  perceptions  of  the  ludicrous — abounding  in 
humorous  anecdote,  as  he  approached  the  age  of 
manhood,  he  was  always,  boy  and  man,  the  life  of 
the  circle  in  which  he  chanced  to  mingle.  But  in  all 
matters  of  trade,  he  was  wide  awake  —  keen  as  a 
briar.  No  sooner  did  he  find  that  one  of  his  brothers, 
or  other  comrades,  had  become  possessed  of  a  "  nine- 
pv-^nce  lawful,"  or,  perchance,  a  pistareen,  but  he  set 
hia  Avits  at  work  to  gain  it;  and  he  generally 
su:c«^ded  by  offering  some  tempting  crticle  in  barter, 


DICK   MCON,  TH."]    VEDI.  A.K.  )>3 

and  persuading  them  of  the  advantages  they  would 
derive  from  the  purchase.  The  consequence  was, 
that  on  the  semi-annual  returns  of  election  holy-days, 
a  "  general  training/'  and  thanksgiving,  when  money 
was  wanted  by  his  brothers  and  others  for  the  pur- 
chase of  election-cake  or  ginger-bread,  and  to  defray 
the  expense  of  turkey-shootings,  Dick,  who  Avas  sure 
to  hold  "  the  deposites,"  was  called  upon  to  furnish 
the  loans  necessary  for  each  occasion.  This  he  was 
ever  ready  and  prompt  to  do,  but  always  exacting 
some  sufficient  pledge  for  security,  and  never  failing 
to  regain  his  oavti  "  with  usury."  Foremost  in  the 
amusements  and  jollifications  incident  to  those  festive 
days,  moreover,  it  was  nevertheless  rare  indeed 
that  they  were  indulged  at  the  expense  of  his  own 
cash.  Not  that  he  escaped  his  share  of  the  reckoning 
by  stinginess  —  not  he;  but  he  had  great  readiness  in 
devising  tricks  of  legerdemain,  and  in  acquiring 
hints  for  the  performance  of  the  simpler  experiments 
of  strolling  jugglers.  Trifling  wagers  upon  his 
suci^essful  feats  of  dexterity,  therefore,  were  always 
sufficient  to  pay  his  proportion,  his  associates  were 
more  than  compensated  by  the  exhibition  of  his 
powers,  while  the  elderly  buxom  lasses  were  delighted 
with  his  skill,  and  the  matrons  of  the  parish  pro- 
nounced him  "  eena-most  a  witch." 

It  would  be  useless  to  recount  the  almost  countless 
devices  to  which  Dick  resorted  for  driving  a  profitable 
internal  commerce  among  his  playrnates  during  his 
boyhood  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  he  was  always  ready 
for  a  trade  —  even  to  the  swopping  of  his  hat,  ot 
1/ 


IM  DICK    MOON,    THE   PEDLAR. 

ex^hati^^ing  pocket  knives  "  unsight  unseen,"  which 
was  formerly  a  frequent  mode  of  "  dickering"  among 
the  lads  at  the  country  schools  of  Connecticut. 
Lucky  dog  that  he  was,  he  was  ever  sure  to  have  the 
best  of  the  bargain. 

The  invasion  of  Pettypaug  by  the  British  forces 
landed  from  the  ships  of  Commodore  Hardy,  then 
lying  ofT  the  estuary  of  the  Connecticut  river,  during 
the  last  war,  has  been  adverted  to  in  rather  a  back 
handed  way  in  the  opening  of  our  story.  It  is 
needless  to  recapitulate  the  history  of  that  memorable 
exploit.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  people  of  that  rather 
sequestered  parish  could  hardly  have  anticipated  a 
visit  from  the  enemy,  at  least  not  until  after  the  more 
attractive  parish  of  Saybrook  should  have'  received 
the  honor.  Jjiit  it  so  fell  out  that  the  rich  booty  of 
General  Hart's  large  mercantile  establishment  was 
passed  by  unheeded ;  and  early  one  morning,  as  the 
good  people  of  Pettypaug  were  brushing  the  poppies 
from  their  eyes,  and  ere  the  sun-beams  had  chased 
away  the  saffron  hues  of  Aurora,  to  their  infinite 
surprise  they  discovered  that  a  column  of  red-coats 
were  enjoying  their  morning  parade  in  the  midst  of 
their  principal  street!  Of  course  the  old  ladies,  with 
and  without  petticoats,  were  suitably  frightened, 
while  those  who  would  willingly  have  made  fight  if 
they  could,  were  precluded  therefrom  by  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  the  case,  having"  been  taken  com 
pletely  unawares,  alike  unarmed  and  undressed! 
For  Dick  Moon,  htr.vever,  ready  and  quickwitted 
in  any    •mergei.'cy,  it   was  a  golden  morning.     As 


DICK   MOON,    THF.    I'Cni.AR.  110 

if  by  insiinct,  and  before  the  other  villagers  had 
recovered  from  their  surprise,  he  struck  up  a  trade 
with  the  strangers,  and  by  exchanging  whatever  of 
butter  and  eggs,  vegetables  and  poultry,  he  could  lay 
his  hands  upon,  fur  the  king's  money — for  so  that  the 
metal  was  good,  he  cared  not  for  the  stamp — Dick 
amassed  enough  to  supply  a  snug  little  exchequer. 
It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good ;  and  while 
the  fleet  of  merchantmen  which  had  been  moored 
thus  far  up  the  river  for  safety,  were  blazing  away  as 
though  Copenhagen  Jackson  were  there  himself, 
Dick  Moon  was  laying  the  foundation  of  his  future 
fortunes. 

Money  grew  every  day  scarcer  during  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  war,  and  Dick  Avas  consequently 
enabled  to  make  his  own  terms  in  occasional  and  not 
unfrequent  loans  of  small  sums  to  those  in  want — 
always  receiving  a  pledge  of  more  than  ample  value, 
as  security  for  the  repayment  on  a  certain  day.  Most 
commonly  the  pledge  was  a  watch,  as  being  at  once 
the  most  convenient,  and  the  most  readily  converted 
into  cash.  It  was  amusing  at  times  to  see  the  number 
of  silver  chronometers  hanging  in  his  bedroom ;  and 
with  him  there  was  no  "  three  days'  grace."  If  the 
money  did  not  come  at  the  time  stipulated,  a  rigid  for- 
feiture of  the  pledge  was  exacted.  But  as  he  dealt  ex- 
plicitly and  honorably  with  every  one,  and  was  withal 
remarkable  for  his  conciliating  manner,  notwithstand- 
ing his  exactness  in  claiming  and  receiving  his  own, 
he  made  no  enemies  by  his  scrupulous  adherence  to 
the  exact  rules  of  his  bank;  and  having  taken  the 


l36  D1''K    MOON,    THE    PEDI.  AR 

tide  of  fortune  at  its  flood,  he  was  drifted  successfully 
onward. 

The  consequence  was,  that  the  close  of  the  war 
found  Dick  Moon  just  one-and-twenty,  with  ready 
money  sufficient  wherewith  to  purchase  a  fine  horse, 
and  a  substantial  and  capacious  pedlar'c  cart,  with  tin 
ware,  and  other  "  notions,"  enough  to  fill  it.  Thus 
furnished  and  provided,  without  owing  a  cent  in  the 
world,  our  hero  sallied  forth,  as  thousands  of  this 
itinerant  race  of  merchants  had  done  before  him. 
But  it  may  readily  be  supposed,  from  the  character 
we  have  sketched  of  him,  that  he  A\as  not  of  the 
common  order  of  pedlars.  Although  possessing  a 
full  share  of  the  characteristic  shrewdness  and  humor 
of  the  tribe,  he  was,  ne  ■  Ttheless,  above  practising 
the  tricks  which  have  won  an  unenviable  fame  for 
the  order ;  and  he  dealt  not  in  wooden  clocks  that 
became  tired  of  ticking  before  sundown,  or  in  tortoise 
shell  combs  made  of  glue  and  molasses,  or  in  horn- 
gun-flints  and  artificial  indigo.  Setting  his  face 
toward  the  far  south,  he  traversed  the  "  ancient 
dominion,"  and  the  Carolinas,  year  after  year,  bring- 
ing back  golden  returns,  and  every  where  leaving  a 
good  character.  To  be  sure,  he  sold  at  a  profit,  and 
was  certain  never  to  exchange  commodities  to  a 
disadvantage.  It  was  his  business  to  do  so ;  but  he 
was  guilty  of  none  of  the  peculiar  cunning  and 
trickery  in)puted  so  universally  to  tliose  of  his 
calHng:  and  was  never  afraid  to  traverse  the  same 
roiitr'  a  second  tnne  —  a  fact  wliich  could  not  be 
predic!>  :     of  most  jiedlars.     Indeed,  wherever  Known. 


DICK    MOON,    THE    PET  LAR.  m 

the  presence  of  Dick  Moon  vas  always  welcome, 
biiice  he  was  not  only  a  man  of  uitelligence,  but  ol 
agreeable  address,  and  "most  excellent  fancy"  —  full 
of  good  humor  and  native  drollery,  without  the  too 
frequent  accompaniments  of  coarseness  and  vulgarity. 
The  hospitality  of  our  southern  fellow-citizens  is 
p/overbial.  C4ood  inns,  in  that  country,  are  few  and 
far  between;  and  even  indifferent  ones  are  not  very 
numerous.  The  broad  domains  of  the  opulent  plan- 
ters, moreover,  necessarily  throw  their  mansions  a 
goodly  distance  asunder.  Of  society,  beyond  their 
own  immediate  family  circles,  they  see  but  compara- 
tively little,  save  when  they  go  abroad  in  quest  of  it. 
The  consequence  is,  that  they  are  frequently  as  much 
favored  by  the  company  of  an  intelligent  stranger- 
guest,  as  the  latter  is  by  an  unexpected  invitation,  and 
a  cordial  reception.  This  explanation  prepares  the 
way  for  the  relation  of  another  important  incident  in 
the  life  of  our  hero.  It  happened  on  one  occasion, 
that  Dick  found  himself  chaffering  in  the  way  of  trade 
with  the  mistress  of  a  large  but  isolated  mansion,  in  the 
lower  part  of  Virginia,  at  a  rather  late  hour  in  the  even- 
ing. The  lady  disputed  his  prices,  and  examined  so 
many  of  his  wares  and  other  notions,  as  ladies  are  wont 
to  do,  that  the  shades  of  night  were  drawing  on  before 
he  was  ready  to  resume  his  journey.  Added  to  which, 
a  massy  pile  <^f  dark  clouds  in  the  west  threatened  a 
tempest.  Under  these  circumstances,  and  in  consider- 
ation, moreover,  of  the  pedlar's  intelligence  and  agree- 
able address,  he  was  invited  to  remain  for  the  night. 
When  the  lord  of  the  mansirn  came  in,  on  beinp 
ir 


tS8  DICK   MOON,    THE   PEDLAR. 

made  acquainted  with  the  circumstance,  ;  e  was 
evidently  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  arrangement 
He  was  a  republican  who  at  the  hustings  could  talk- 
eloquently  of  liberty  and  equality,  while  at  home 
more  than  a  hundred  slaves  trembled  at  his  presence. 
He  was  proud  of  his  caste,  and  thought  that  nothing 
was  equal  to  old  Virginia,  because,  at  that  time,  he 
had  never  travelled  beyond  it.  The  Yankees,  of  all 
men,  he  had  been  taught  to  despise  as  a  miserly  race, 
who  never  wept  but  when  weeding  their  onions,  nor 
blushed,  but -^■vhen  plating  their  tin  —  and  the  Yankee 
pedlars  were  the  objects  of  his  particular  abhorrence. 
And  vet  there  were  many  excellent  points  in  the 
character  of  Major  Dinwiddle.  Among  his  equals 
there  were  few  possessing  greater  intelligence,  or 
more  amiable  and  generous  qualities  than  he,  unless  his 
judgment  had  been  warped,  or  his  feelings  wrought 
upon  by  prejudice.  But,  on  the  whole,  it  needed 
not  half  the  penetration  possessed  by  the  pedlar,  to 
discern  that  he  was  not  altogether  as  welcome  a  guest 
as  probably  would  have  been  one  of  the  Gholsons  or 
the  Ranilolplis.  Not  many  words  had  been  inter- 
changed, before  the  planter  indicated  still  more 
intelligibly  his  half-dif  satisfied  humor,  by  askine 
abruptly — 

"  Well,  brother  Jonathan,  T  reckon  you've  brought 
along  a  power  of  notions  to  please  tbe  Virgininns, 
di !   What  have  you  ?" 

"  Pretty  much  every  thing,  I  gues?;  tin-ware,  pins  and 
pepper,  drums,  needles  and  shuttle-cocks,  fiddles,  doD? 
warming-pans,  mouse-traps,  and  other  sweet-meats-- 


DICK    MOON,    TIIK    PEDLAR  J90 

"Togetlicr  with  a  heap  of  wooden  nuuTiefifs, 

I  reckon  —  how  do  they  sell?" 

'Why,  sax-a-lax*  sell  pretty  lively  yet,  but  white 
oak  don't  go  very  well  of  late." 

The  planter  was  by  no  means  insensible  to  the 
ludicrous  ;  and  the  promptness  of  the  pedlar's  replies, 
the  peculiar  cast  of  gravity  with  which  they  were 
uttered,  and  their  oddity  withal,  soon  dissipated  the 
prejudice  v.hicli  had  c.iilled  his  welcome,  and  placed 
Dick  Moon  at  once  upon  a  different  footing  for  the 
evening.  Major  Dinwiddle  discovered  that  he  was 
entertaining  a  very  clever  fellow,  albeit  a  pedlar; 
and  after  sipping  a  cheerful  julep  together,  the 
Virginian  sunk  the  aristocrat,  and  conversed  as  freely 
of  his  tobacco  crop,  his  negroes,  his  horses,  and  his 
hounds,  as  though  talking  with  one  of  the'  Drom 
gooles  or  Merriwethers  of  his  own  county.  He  made 
many  inquiries  of  the  pedlar  respecting  matters  and 
things  in  Yankee  land,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
evening  was  very  inquisitive  on  the  subject  of  thi-? 
"  Yankee  tricks,"  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much. 
The  pedlar,  on  his  part,  sustained  the  conversation  very 
creditably,  for  himself,  his  country,  and  his  calling. 

In  regard  to  the  peculiar  "  tricks,"  for  the  practic»; 
of  which  his  countrymen  were  enjoying  such  unen  visi- 
ble notoriety  at  the  South,  he  disclaimed,  and  truly,  any 
practical  knowledge  of  them  himself,  while  engaged 
in  his  itinerating  commercial  intercourse  with  the 
plantation  states,  nor  did  he  acknowledge  them  to  be 
exclusively  characteristic  of  tne  Yankees.  Therp 
*  The  provincial  pronunc.ation  of  Sassajras. 


ion  DICK    MOON,    THE    PEDLAR. 

were  tricks  m  all  trades  and  occupations,  ar  >  tricicy 
men  in  all  countries.  The  adroitness  with  \A>iiich 
they  were  practised,  would  of  course  depend  u^  ..i  'he 
shrewdness  of  the  artist — not  upon  his  parentage,  «r 
the  place  of  his  birth ;  and  he  was  greatly  mistaken 
if  Virginia  horse  jockeys  could  not  be  found  equalling 
any  wooden  clock  vender  that  ever  came  from 
Connecticut.  But  the  planter  was  incredulous.  He 
had  heard  so  much  of  the  tricks  of  the  Yankee 
pedlatb,  that  he  could  not  divest  himself  of  the  idea 
that  the  study  of  the  art  was  a  part  of  their  profession. 
Hence  he  supposed  them  to  be  a  sort  of  roving 
brotherhood — bound  by  a  mystic  tie  like  the  freema- 
sons— with  the  art  of  working  tricks  by  a  process 
known  only  to  their  own  hopeful  fraternity,  — and 
so  curious  was  he  to  behold  a  legitimate  Yankee 
trick,  that  he  be^ofed  of  his  guest  to  work  one  for  his 
own  special  gratification.  Our  hero  had  no  desire  to 
gain  notoriety  in  that  way,  and  he  repeatedly  begged 
to  be  excused,  modestly  alleging  his  inability  to 
perform  any  such  exploit,  either  of  dexterity,  or  of 
wit.  Importunity,  hoAvever,  at  length  prevailed  over 
resolution;  and  as  the  family  separated  for  the  night, 
Dick  promised  to  show  the  Major  a  trick  before  he 
took  his  departure  in  the  morning. 

An  ebony  damsel,  lustrous  from  very  blackness, 
iightod  Dick  to  his  chamber,  and  pointed  him  to  a 
high  bed,  into  which,  when  1  e  threw  himself,  he  sunk 
as  into  n  sea  of  down,  so  light  and  livelj*^  were  the 
feathers.  The  sheets  were  sweet  and  clean,  and  over 
n\]     was    snrfiil    a    superb    Marseilles    counternann. 


DICK  MdON,    THE   PEDLAR.  9>I 

beautifully  wrought  in  delicate  figures,  as  if  the 
needle-woHf  of  some  fairy  fingers,  and  rivalling  thu 
driven  snow  in  whitene'^s. 

The  pedlar  awoke  with  'he  lark  from  a  glorious 
slumber,  and  was  dressed  before  a  single  inmate  of 
the  mansion  was  on  the  move.  Having  completed  his 
toilet,  in  regard  to  which  he  was  always  somewhat 
more  attentive  than  is  usual  with  his  profession,  he  took 
the  counterpane  from  the  bed,  folded  it  carefully  as 
though  just  taken  from  a  bale  of  merchandise,  attach- 
ed a  commercial  mark  to  the  fringe,  and  carried  it 
out  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  before  any  of  the 
family  had  risen,  and  placed  it  in  his  cart.  The 
wants  of  his  faithful  horse  were  next  consulted,  an  1 
after  measuring  to  him  an  ample  supply  of  provender, 
he  regained  his  apartment,  yet  unperceived,  and  in 
due  season  presented  himself  below  with  the  family, 

In  the  country,  where  time  is  employed  according 
to  the  design  of  the  Creator  —  where  the  night  is  taken 
for  repose,  as  the  day  was  ordained  for  labor — and 
where  it  is  thought  no  mark  of  disrespect  to  rise  before 
the  sun, — breakfast  is  truly  a  morning  meal,  AcconS- 
ingly,  it  was  found  smoking  upon  the  table,  as  the 
pedlar  descended  into  the  parlor,  where,  in  a  moment 
afterward,  he  was  joined  by  the  hos/itable  major  and 
hi?  lady.  Of  course  the  morning  repast,  inviting  and 
bountiful  to  an  excess,  according  to  southern  ?-;is- 
tom,  was  not  to  be  declir^ed,  and  Dick  gave  practical 
testimony  that  he  was  not  afflicted  by  the  dyspepsia 

In  due  season,  and  without  unnecessary  delay,  thn 
pedlar's    horse   Avas    in    harness,    and    he   was    ']vM 


am  »IC\    irtOC  N,   THE   PEDLAR. 

preparing  vo  ascend  hi-  box  to  depart,  when,  .s  tnongli 
sudden!}'  recollecting  .limself,  he  called  to  the  lady, 
and  informed  her  that  he  had  in  lis  box  one  article, 
and  only  one,  which  he  was  exceedingly  desirous 
she  should  possess.  It  was  a  splendid  Marseilles 
counterpan  ;,  wrought  exactly  after  a  pattern  which 
had  been  drawn  for  the  Duchess  of  Berri,  and  in 
consideration  of  the  kindness  with  which  he  had  been 
entertained,  she  must  have  it.  He  thereupon  brought  it 
forth  from  his  cart,  and  opened  it  to  the  admiration  of 
the  whole  family.  It  wis  so  fine,  so  beautiful,  so 
much  handsomer  than  any  thing  of  the  kind  they  had 
ever  seen,  that  the  vote  v  as  unanimous  that  it  must  be 
purchased.  And  then,  it  was  so  cheap  —  only  torty 
dollars!  "My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dinwiddie  to  the 
Major  —  "How  lucky!  It  is  just  the  thing  that  I  was 
wanting  for  the  blue  chamber,  against  Mr.  Calhoun 
comes  along  on  his  waj'-  to  congress !"  And  so  the 
counterpane  was  purchased.  The  pedlar  pocketted 
the  money,  bade  them  good  morning,  and  mounted 
his  cart. 

"  But  stay  a  moment,  Mr.  Moon,"  en  lied  u  e  Major, 
as  the  pedlar  began  to  raise  his  whip  for  a  flourish: 
"  Where  is  the  Yarkce  trick  you  promised  to  show 
me  before  your  departure?" 

"Never  mind,"  replied  Dick,  "you  will  find  it  out 
soon  enough!"  and  with  a  crack  of  his  whip,  he 
drove  off  at  a  ri'piJ  gait  —  more  after  the  pattern  of 
Je  lu,  than  he  had  ever  driven  before. 

The  denouement  followed  in  due  season,  as  a  matter 
of  -ourse-    bi".  the  ped:'ir  was   far  aw:iy,   and  there 


DICK   MOON,   THE       EULAR.  205 

A-as  no  remedy.  And  besides,  to  a  in<  a  jf  Major 
Dinwiddle's  pretensions  and  pride,  having  been 
caught -in  a  trap  of  his  own  setting,  the  less  said  about 
it  in  public  the  better.  The  story  was  too  good, 
however,  long  to  be  kept ;  and  it  may  well  be  suppos- 
ed that  the  merriment  created  at  his  expense,  was  nol 
calculated  to  increase  his  affection  for  the  venders  of 
tin-ware  from  Connecticut. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  the  wheels  of  Dick  Moon's 
cart  meantime  rolled  over  almost  every  state  in  the 
Union  —  each  revolution  adding  to  his  temporal 
stores,  and  of  course  increasing  his  investments ;  for 
our  hero  was  not  the  man  to  leave  either,  at  loose 
ends,  or  idle.  And  here,  though  not  without  great 
reluctance,  his  biographer  must  take  leave  of  him  for 
the  present. 


It  was  just  at  night-fall,  one  day,  in  the  autumn  oi 
1832 — the  fatal  year  in  which  the  scourge  of  India, 
the  cholera,  made  its  appearance,  and  swept  with 
fearful  mortality  through  the  land,  from  the  Gulf  o 
the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Delta  of  the  Mississippi  — 
that  a  well  mounted  gentleman,  somewhat  fatigi  ed, 
however,  and  having  the  appearance  of  one  upon 
a  long  journey,  rode  up  to  an  indifferent  looking  inn 
about  midway  between  the  parishes  of  East  and  West 
Feliciana,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Baton  Rouge,  on 
the  Mississippi.  This  is  by  far  the  pleasantest  district 
of  Louisiana.  Having  traversed  alone,  and  on  horse- 
hack,  from    New-Orleans,    a  distance  of  nearly  tw 


204  DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR. 

nundred  miles,  over  a  dead  level,  diversifiec.  oi.  y 
betAveen  the  plantations  by  pine  woods  and  swamps, 
alluvions  and  quaking  prairies,  it  wa-5  an  agreeable 
change  for  the  traveller,  to  find  himself  in  a  country 
breaking  into  hills  and  valleys,  the  former  covered 
with  laurel,  and  the  latter  with  rich  plantations.  The 
foliage  of  the  trees  was  assuming  those  rich  and  varied 
hues,  which  impart  so  much  beauty  to  the  autumnal 
drapery  of  the  American  forests,  and  the  stranger  had 
moreover  refreshed  himself  repeatedly  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  by  plucking  and  eating  of  the  rich 
fox  and  muscadine  grapes,  that  hung  in  ripe  and 
luscious  clusters,  descending,  at  times,  almost  over 
his  head  —  and  too  inviting  in  appearance  and  taste  to 
be  resisted. 

The  landlord,  w^ith  rubicund  visage,  more  strongly 
illuminated,  probably,  by  the  beams  now  glancing 
horizontally  upon  his  shining  nose  from  the  setting 
sun,  stood  in  the  portal  of  his  somewhat  dilapidated 
tenement  —  a  chateau,  as  it  had  been  called  in  its 
better  days,  when  owned  and  occupied  by  a  relation 
of  the  Marquis  Maison  Rouge. 

"  Stran-ger,^'  said  the  traveller  to  the  publican 
"can  I  get  to  stay  with  you  to  night?" 

"Well,  I  reckon,"  was  the  affirmative  reply,  in  the 
Red  River  dialect.  Whereupon  the  horseman  dis- 
mounted, and  the  proper  directions  we'e  given  to  the 
Bable  ostler. 

"  Caesar,  hang  the  Slran-ger^s  horse  finent  the 
spring,  and  when  he  gets  cool,  wash  hini  and  rub 
him  down,  and  give  him  a  smart  chance  of  roughness. 


DICK   MOON,   THE   J>  K.)  I,  A  R  .  206 

Hack,  now,  and  draw  a  bee-line  quick :  and,  here,  .Tube, 
tote  in  the  s^ran-ger's  phmder :  — Come,  patter  along." 

While  these  arrangements  were  making,  some  little 
conversation  ensued  betw^een  the  publican  and  guest. 

"  From  the  up-country,  I  reckon  ?"  inquired  the 
'brmer. 

"  From  Old  Virginia." 

"  Smart  sprinkle  of  niggers  there  yet  ?  though  a 
power  of  them  has  been  brought  to  Orleans,  and  up 
to  Bayou-Sarah,  within  a  few  years  past.  This  sugar- 
making  does  the  business  for  a  heap  of  'em  every 
year.  The  cholera  cuts  'em  off  this  fall  most  ban- 
daciously.  Mr.  L'Amoreaux,  at  the  last  plantation 
back,  which  you  passed,  has  had  a  touch,  and  is 
powerful  weak  yet." 

The  traveller,  who  was  rather  less  sociable  than 
the  publican,  and  who  was,  in  fact,  making  an  over- 
land journey  homeward  from  New-Orleans,  whither 
he  had  been  to  dispose  of  forty  or  fifty  of  his  sla^'es, 
uttered  some  indifferent  reply,  and  was  turning  to 
enter  the  house,  when  he  discovered  the  cart  of  a 
New  England  pedlar,  standing  under  a  shed  a  short 
distance  from  the  door. 

"  This  universal  Yankee  nation !"  he  exclaimed, 
"  you  find  them  every  where.  I  reckon  they  Avould  go 
to  Tophet  to  sell  a  pistauen's  worth  of  mamnioth 
pumpkin  seeds,  if  they  could  clear  four-pence  by  it. 
I  say,  landlord,  I  think  you  should  keep  a  quick  eye 
upon  the  sharpers  who  ride  upon  carts  like  that.  No 
honest  man  is  safe  against  their  tricks,  and  for  a  keen 
6hav(    I  rcrkon   <  Id    Rriin.-toh.'   hiin.«elf  conld'nt  beat 

18 


M6  DICK  MOON,  THE  PEDLAR. 

them.     Indeed,    I   believe    he's  in  partnership  with 
most  of  'em." 

"Never  mind, me  for  that,"  replied  the  landlord. 
"  I  never  seed  a.  Yankee  yet,  from  Mike  Fink,  the 
boatman — and  he  wa?  a  rip-ronrer,  you  know, — 
down  to  the  slickest  peilar  that  -^ver  found  his  way 
to  Baton  Rouge,  who  was  up  to  Bill  Mackintosh  — 
and  that's  my  name,  Stran-ger,  to  your  sarvice." 

"  So  I  should  think :  But  what  sort  of  a  man  has 
carted  himself  hither  upon  that  box?" 

"  I  don't  mind  that  I  ever  seed  him  afore ;  but  he 
is  a  likely  looking  chap,  and  his  horse  swings  a  fine 
tail.  He's  gone  over  the  hill  to  find  an  old  neighbor 
of  his,  by  the  name  of  Dudley,  who  toted  himself  into 
these  parts  about  fifteen  years  ago,  and  has  made 
himself  richer  without  any  niggers,  than  any  of  the 
rest  of  us  who  have  fifty  on  'em.  I  don't  reckon  that 
Dudley  will  now  let  on  that  he  ever  know'd  ihe 
pedlar." 

"  Well,  I  advise  you  to  keep  a  look  out  for  him, 
that's  all.     These  Yankee  tricks — " 

"  Oh,  never  fear  :  Should  he  play  any  of  his  tricks 
upon  Bill  Mackintosh  —  you  see  that  are  rifle?  — he'd 
soon  find  himself  obscpiattulatod,  and  a  streak  of  day- 
liglu  shining  through  him." 

I'he  stranger  had  entered  the  house  before  the  last 
words  w<re  spoken,  and  Boniface  turned  to  swear  at 
his  negroes  for  not  stirring  more  briskly  in  closing  up 
their  chores. 

In  the  course  of  the  nighf,  the  proprietor  of  the 
New  England  vehicle  A-'hich  had  occasior^d  a  portion 


DICK   MOON,   THE    PEDLAR.  207 

of  the  preceding  colloquy,  was  aroused  from  his  bed 
by  a  terrible  commotion  in  the  chateau.  The  land- 
lord was  swearing  at  the  poor  servants,  whose  negro 
gibberish  fell  upon  the  pedlar's  ear,  mingled  with 
groans,  as  of  a  person  in  a  situation  of  severe  suffer- 
ing. 

"Out,  out  with  him!"  gruffly  exclaimed  the  land- 
lord.    "  I  keep  a  tavern,  and  not  a  cholera  hospital.'' 

"  But  oh,   Massa,  de  gemman  so  sick !     He  can 
move  'um  —  he  die  for  sartin  !      Me  nebber  see  white 
man  look  so  brack  and  brue." 

"  Take  him  out  to  the  shed,  you  cantankerous  black 
rascals!"  roared  Boniface. 

"  I  wish-ee  Massa  den  be  sick  heself — turn  out 
pjor  ting  in  sich-ee  debble  of  a  passhun.  Poor 
nigger  more  compasshuns  den  dat,"  soliloquized  the 
humane  African,  in  an  under  tone;  —  whereupon  the 
trembling  bevy  of  slaves  set  about  executing  the 
brutal  order. 

The  pedlar  had  been  an  auditor,  though  not  a 
spectator,  of  the  scene,  and  being  a  humane  man,  he 
threv.'  on  his  clothes  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
hastened  to  the  relief  of  the  sick  gentleman,  whose 
case,  from  the  language  he  had  heard,  and  the  circum- 
stance that  the  cholera  Avas  at  that  time  rajjincf  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Mississippi,  he  already  understood.  To 
see  a  fellow  being  thus  inhumanly  cast  out  of  the 
house,  a  stranger,  perhaps,  far  from  home  and 
kindred,  to  die  with  the  brutes,  was  shocking  to  his 
feelings,  and  it  was  his  purpose,  at  all  hazards,  to 
prevent  th'^  execution  of  the  savage  mandate  he  had 


106  DICK  MOON,   TIIK    PEDLAR. 

heard.  But  ere  he  Avas  able  to  join  the  sable  group 
who  had  the  sick  man  in  charge,  they  had  crossed 
the  street,  and  wer  already  entering  the  shed,  an 
apartment  of  which  was  in  truth  almost  as  comforta- 
ble as  the  ruinous  chateau. 

"  And  is  this  the  fashion  after  which  j'ou  treat 
christian  men  in  these  parts?"  exclaimed  the  pedlar. 
"  Wliere's  the  landlord?"  he  d'^manded.  "By  the 
hokey !"  he  continued  — "  If  I  could  get  hold  of  him 
just  at  this  moment,  I'd  knock  him  into  a  cock'd  hat 
in  a  jiffey." 

"  Oh,  Massa  awful  man,"  replied  one  of  the  snow- 
balls.    "  He  mak'ee  smell  brim-stone  he  hear'ee  !" 

"  He  may  be  an  airthquake,"  replied  the  pedlar, 
"for  what  I  care,  but  he'll  never  shake  me,  I  guess." 

Boniface,  however,  fearful  of  the  pestilence,  had 
slunk  away,  and  was  already  mixing  camphor  with 
his  nocturnal  julep,  as  a  preventive  to  the  disease  he 
was  inviting  by  the  potation. 

The  pedlar  had  amply  provided  himself  for  any 
emergency  of  the  kind,  by  purcha>  "ing  and  studying 
Reese's  Treatise  upon  Cholera,  and  laying  in  a  small 
store  of  suitable  medicines,  under  the  direction  of  a 
physician  in  Philadelphia,  before  he  commenced  his 
present  journey.  He  therefore  ordered  lights,  and 
proceeded  to  examine  the  sick  man  —  whom,  by  the 
way,  he  recognized  as  having  seen  somewhere  before. 
There  was  no  mistake,  however,  as  to  the  cliavucter 
of  the  disease.  The  stranger  had  probalily  contract- 
ed the  oriental  malady  several  days  j)revious,  and  the 
wild  graph's  which  he  had  been  so  plentifully  eating 


DISK    MOON,    THE    PEDLAR.  209 

the  day  before,  had  brought  it  upon  him  with  tremend- 
ous severity.  Indeed,  its  progress  had  been  so  rapid, 
that  his  count  "nance  was  already  assuming  thai  livid 
mahogany  color,  which  indicates  the  near  approach  of 
the  blue  stage.  His  tongue  was  becoming  cold,  and  his 
skin  began  to  corrugate.  No  time  was  to  be  lost. 
Following  the  direction  of  the  author  already  men 
tioned,  he  breathed  a  vein  with  his  pen-knife,  and  after 
a  copious  bleeding,  gave  him  a  full  dose  of  calomel, 
of  which  he  had  several  provided.  The  negroes 
were  all  activity  and  attention.  Mustard  poultices 
were  applied  to  his  body,  and  as  he  continually 
begged  for  water,  one  of  the  negroes  was  dispatched 
to  the  ice-house  of  Mr.  Dudley,  whence  he  Avas 
speedily  forth-coming  with  a  good  supply.  Before  it 
was  time  for  the  calomel  to  take  effect,  the  patient  had 
sunk  into  that  perfect  state  of  composure  which  indi- 
cates an  approaching  collapse.  The  pedlar,  however, 
who  had  witnessed  the  treatment  of  several  cases  in 
the  New-York  hospitals,  did  not  despair,  although  he 
watched  him  for  some  hours  with  trembling  appre- 
hension—  not  leaving  the  bed  of  straw  on  which  he 
had  been  placed  for  a  moment.  Feeding  him  plenti- 
fully with  ice,  and  renewing  the  mustard  applications 
as  occasion  required,  before  noon  of  the  following 
day,  the  pedlar  had  the  satisfaction  to  find  all  things 
working  well.  A  few  hours  more,  anrf  the  change 
was  s")  manifest  as  to  afford  strong  confidence  of  a 
recovery.  It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  this  dread- 
fill  scourge,  that  restoration  is  frequently  as  rapid  as 
the    progress  of  the  disease.       On  the  second  dav 

18* 


210  1  ICK    MOON,    THE   PEDLAR. 

therefore,  the  pedlar  saw  his  patient  so  far  resto.i  J  to 
health,  as  to  feel  safe  in  leaving  him.  With  a 
thousand  thanks  for  his  kindness  and  humanity,  and 
the  offer  of  a  liberal  compensation  in  money,  which 
he  rejected,  the  pedlar  took  his  departure  —  slipping 
into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  negroes  a  note,  to  be 
delivered  to  the  sick  gentleman,  after  he  was  gone,  ot 
which  the  following  is  a  copy : — 

'Regions  of  Inhuvianity,  Nov.  25,  1832. 
"  Dear  Sir, 

"  As  I  calcTilate  you  are  now  safe  to  do,  I 
have  concluded  to  start  this  afternoon,  and  get  quit  of 
this  pesky  place  as  soon  as  possible  —  especially  as  1 
am  obleeged  to  be  in  Orleans  next  i\eek,  before  the 
brig  Snap-Dragon  sails  for  Vera  Cruz.  You  have 
had  a  pretty  tight  squeeze  on't,  or  I'm  mistaken. 
Your  face  was  about  as  thin  as  a  hatchet  when  old 
Hardscrabble  turned  you  out-of-doors,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  Yankee  pedlar,  I  think  you'd  have 
twisted  yourself  into  a  corkscrew  in  an  hour  more, 
I  make  no  merit  of  what  I  have  done,  and  I  only 
hope  that  hereafter  you'll  believe  that  all  Yankees 
are  not  so  unfeeliu!.,'-  that  they  cannnt  weep  except 
when  they  are  cutting  up  oniois;  and  as  I  have 
scorned  to  receive  your  money,  I  guoss  you  may  also 
admit  that  it's  not  every  pedlar  who  is  so  greedy  for 
gain,  as  to  skin  flints  and  shad-scales  to  get  it.  The 
niggers  have  all  done  what  they  could  for  you,  and  if 
you  cqin  give  them  a  Ccw  notions,  without  letting  the 
old  alligator  in  the  house  know  it,  I  calculate  it  wmi'i 


DICK   MOON,    THE    PEDLAR.  811 

come  amiss.  Enclosed  I  leave  you  a  dose  or  two  of 
marcury,  and  Doctor  Reese's  receipt,  which,  if  you 
have  a  relapse,  you  can  swallow  for  yourself — not 
the  receipt,  I  don't  mean,  but  the  calomel.  But 
mind  you  don't  eat  any  more  grapes,  or  drink  any 
juleps,  until  the  cholera's  gone.  Enclosed  I  also  send 
you  a  forty  dollar  note  of  'Squire  Biddle's  bank  — 
which,  for  your  use,  I  guess  is  pretty  considerably 
better  than  specie — being  the  amount  which  you  paid 
me  fifteen  years  ago  for  Mrs.  Dinwiddle's  counter- 
pane. If  you'll  look  close,  I  gu^^^s  you'll  find  the 
bill  is  an  old  acquaintance.  It's  the  same  I  look 
on  you,  whether  or  no.  Howsomever  you  have 
forgotten  me,  though  I  expect  you  don't  forget  to 
remember  the  "  Yankee  trick."  I  had  tho'ts  of 
putting  in  the  interest ;  but  as  it  was  a  trick  of  your 
own  axing,  I  conclude  you  may  lose  that  much,  for 
knowing  more  than  you  did  before.  But  I  must  be 
stirring. 

"  Your  obedient, 

"  RICHARD  MOON. 

"  To  Maj.  Dinwiddle,  of  Virginia. 

"  P  S.  I  hope  you'll  not  forget  to  remember  ti 
present  my  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Dinwiddle 
and  tell  her  she  must  not  lay  that  matter  up  agin  me 
I  expect  I  saw  your  son  on  parade  at  West  Pint  in 
September  —  his  mother  all  over.  His  eyes  are  as 
bright  as  a  button,  and  h'  walks  as  trim  and  straighi 
as  a  corn-stalk.'' 


2ia  DICK    MOON,    THE    PEDLAR. 

From  the  date  of  this  letter,  until  a  kw  weeks 
since,  the  biographer  has  had  no  direct  inttlligence 
from  Dick  Moon,  excepting  a  vague  rumor  that  soon 
after  reaching  New-Orleans,  he  had  drawn  for  all  his 
spare  funds  in  the  hands  of  Prime,  Ward  &  King, 
and  had  invested  them  in  a  mining  company  in 
Mexico.  His  friends  in  Saybrook  and  Pettypaug, 
and  even  the  knowing  ones  in  Wall-street,  shook 
their  heads  upon  this  intelligenc  «.  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  it's  a  long  road  that  never  turns,  and  Dick  has  doubt- 
less missed  a  figure  at  last."  Put  taking  up  a  Mexi- 
can paper  in  August  last,  what  was  the  delight  of  the 
biographer  as  he  glanced  his  eye  upon  the  followiriq; 
paragraph : — 

De  la  Catarata  de  la  Libertad  Mejicana, 

Junio  30,  1835. 
Tenemos  el  placer  de  anunciar  que  el  Condiicta 
4Ue  dejo  esta  Capital  para  Vera  Cruz,  el  26  de  Mayo, 
llego  sin  novedad  a  Xalapa  el  16  del  corriente.  Se 
acordaran  que  entre  la  propriedad  encargada  a  este 
conducta  fue  un  cantidad  grande  de  Carras  de  plata 
perteneciente  al  Senor  Don  Ricardo  de  la  Lvna, 
de  una  de  las  mas  ricas  minas  de  Guanajuato,  de  las 
cuales  dos  anos  hace  vino  a  ser  proprietario  principal 
aquel  caballero.  Ha  inventado  una  maquina  asom- 
brosa  para  trabajar  la  niina,  quo  promete  do  por 
cierto  scr  de  mucho  valor  para  toda  ( lase  do  minas 
de  esta  ropublica  ronaciente.  Cuando  estuvo  en  esta 
capital  cl  Sofior  R.  Luna  estaba  tan  contonto  con  la 
hormosura  do  su  situacion,   la  saliid  dol  clinia.  v  la* 


DICK   MOON,    THE    PEDLAR.  213 

encantadoras  vistas,  en  medio  de  las  cuales  se  encuen 
tia  la  ciudad  de  Montezuma,  que  comprb  la  deliciosa 
mansion — antiguamente  la  propiedad  del  alcalde 
real  —  como  nuestros  lectores  saben,  de  porfiro  y  de 
amygdaloide,  situada  ca  la  parte  occidental  de  la  alamo- 
da  directamente  fronteriza  a  la  fuente. 

i-REE  TRANSLATION. 

"  From  the  Cataract  of  Mexican  Liberty,  June  30,  1835, 
"  We  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing  that  the 
conducta  which  left  this  capital  for  Vera  Cruz,  on 
the  26th  of  May,  arrived  at  Xalapa  without  accident, 
on  the  16th  of  the  present  moi^th.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  among  the  merchandise  etitrusted  to  this 
conducta,  was  a  large  quantity  of  silver  bullion, 
belonging  to  Richard  Moon,  Esq.,  from  one  of  the 
richest  mines  of  Guanajuato,  of  which  two  years  ago 
that  gentleman  became  the  principal  proprietor.  He 
has  invented  an  ingenious  machine  for  working  the 
mine,  which  promises  to  be  of  great  value  in  the 
mining  operations  of  this  rising  republic.  When  Mr. 
Moon  was  in  this  capital,  he  was  so  much  pleased 
with  the  beauty  of  its  situation,  the  healthiness  of  the 
climate,  and  the  glorious  scenery,  in  the  midst  of 
which  stands  the  city  of  Montezuma,  that  he  pur- 
chased the  delightful  mansion,  formerly  the  property 
of  the  royal  Alcalde,  constructed,  as  our  readers  may 
well  know,  of  porphyry  and  amygdaloid,  situated 
on  the  western  side  of  the  Alameda,  directly  fronting 
the  fountain." 


ORtHiN'S    POND 


I  BLESS  thee,  native  shore  ! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparVinf;  clear 

'Tis  like  a  dream  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand  waves  to  hear, 

As  murmuring  up  the  sand 
With  kisses  bright  they  lave  the  sloping  lend. 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray, 

And  o'er  thy  headlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  morning  play. 

The  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallowed  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found; 

With  scarce  disputed  jeign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around. 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
Till'  r(>gal  garl)  that  ?nits  a  queen  so  fair. 


GREEN'S    POND.  213 

Oh,  oft  my  heart  hath  yearned 
For  thy  sweet  shades,  and  vales  of  sunny  rest ! 

Even  as  the  swan  returned, 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thine  azure  breast, 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot, 
Forsaken  long — but  ne'er,  ah!  ne'er  forgot 

Twas  here  that  memory  grew — 
Twas  here  that  childhood's  hopes  and  cares  wore 

\*.s  early  freshness  too  — 
Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  its  best  joys  bereft. 

Where  are  they?  —  o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  I  would  call  the  wanderers  back ! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still ! 
Thou  art  unchanged — as  bright  the  sunbeams  play; 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatched  away: 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  things  so  late  resigneu  to  thee ! 

Give  back — oh  smiling  deep! 
The  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  ot  youth, 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep  — 
Life's  April  innocence,  and  trustful  truth  I 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  murmurs,  once  again  restore ' 

Where  have  they  vanished  all  ? 
Only  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh  — 


m  GREEN'S    POND. 

• 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by  I 

And  idle  as  the  air, 
Or  fleeting  stream,  my  pining  spirit's  prayer ' 

Home  of  sweet  thoughts  —  farewell! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  oe, 

A  deep  and  hallowed  spell 
Is  jn  thy  waters  and  thy  woods  for  me! 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Ite  chi  dhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves ! 


PRESENTIMENT. 

A   TALE    OF   THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 

BT  A.  D.  PATBRSON,  ESQ, 


'  Ifeei  the  touch  of  a  brother's  hand  near  my  heart,  and  it  coea  me 
good."  Joanna  Baillie. 


Whoever  would  see  the  great  vivifier  of  nature 
appear,  under  his  most  gorgeous  circumstances,  and 
surrounded  by  the  most  splendid  expanse,  should  be 
sailing  on  the  Mediterranean ;  and  should  rise  betimes, 
if  he  would  indeed  behold  the  whole  mao-nificent 
scene.  The  young  morning  peeps  forth,  modestly 
clad  in  sober  gray,  but  as  he  advances  he  rapidly 
changes  his  hues,  each  being  richer  and  brighter  than 
that  which  preceded  it,  and  seeming,  as  he  increases  in 
importance,  to  be  the  harbinger  of  the  glorious  orb 
which  is  to  shed  so  wondrous  and  universal  an  influ- 
ence over  the  face  of  creation.  Gradually  the  rapt 
beholder  becomes  entranced  with  the  view  of  still 
accumulating  beauties,  until  at  length  the  sun  himself 
emerges  from  his  ocean-bed,  in  one  unclouded  flood  of 
light  and  splendor  while  in  his  train  corr;e  <:miles  and 

19 


i 

218  PRESENTIMENT. 

beauty,  sweetness  and  plenty.  The  soul  of  the 
beholder  seems  exalted  above  itself,  and  he  rises  from 
admiration  of  the  scene  to  adoration  of  its  great 
Creator.  The  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  have  an 
aspect  peculiar  to  themselves,  produced  in  a  great 
measure  by  the  quality  of  the  atmosphere  in  that 
region ;  the  eminences  there  have  a  finer  gray,  the 
valleys  a  deeper  purple,  in  their  tinge;  while  the 
light  and  elegant  vessels,  propelled  by  sails  adapted 
to  those  waters,  seem  to  glide  fairy-like  from  point  to 
point,  or  make  excursions  over  the  broad  and  smooth 
sea,  as  if  they  were  natives  of  the  element  and  "instinct 
with  life." 

It  is  admirable  to  perceive  Avith  what  sagacity  as 
well  as -readiness  man  accommodates  circumstances 
to  his  necessity  or  convenience ;  in  marine  inventions 
this  is  perhaps  more  remarkable  than  in  most  others. 
The  peculiarities  of  the  climate,  of  the  sea,  and  even 
the  indentations  of  the  shores,  render  it  proper  to 
adapt  certain  modes  of  propelling,  as  well  as  of  keep- 
ing securely,  vessels  under  sail,  which  would  suit  no 
other  region.  Hence  the  seaman,  who  has  always  his 
full  share  of  national  vanity  at  his  heart,  can  look 
with  complacency  and  delight  upon  the  building  and 
rigging  so  differeiu  from  those  of  his  own  country, 
for  his  practised  eye  informs  him  that  there  is  no 
comparison  to  be  instituted.  The  American  mariner 
in  particular,  feels  no  diminution  of  pleasurw  in 
remembering  the  beautifiil  cutters  which  skim  along 
the  waters  m  the  bay  of  New- York,  or  in  the  vicinity 
of  Sandy  Hook,   no  humiliating  sensation  as  he  casts 


(•RESENTIMENT.  «18 

Beck  the  glance  :»f  his  mind,  upon  some  Baltimore 
clipper,  which  on  the  broad  Atlantic  could 

"  Walk  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life ;" 

but  sees,  in  the  light  felucca  which  swiftly  glides 
across  the  bays,  being  urged  by  skilful  oarsmen, — 
in  the  lateensaW  of  the  market-coaster,  which  elegantly 
bends  to  the  breeze  and  rises  in  rebomid  —  in  the 
xebec  and  polacre  with  rigging  so  constructed  as  to 
catch  the  lofty  airs,  yet  so  manageable  as  to  be  taken 
in  with  the  swiftness  of  thought — all  being  adapta- 
tions to  light  airs  and  sudden  squalls,  to  which  the 
Mediterranean  is  peculiarly  obnoxious. 

The  scenery  and  the  objects  which  we  have 
described,  derive  additional  beauty  from  the  opening 
hues  of  a  summer  morning,  from  about  an  hour 
before  sunrise  till  an  hour  after  it.  Visions  of  glad- 
ness and  of  splendor  are  before  us,  and  holy  thoughts 
are  awakened  within  us ;  we  seem  to  rejoice  in  our 
existence,  and  are  ready  to  bless  the  Almignty  hand 
Vv^hich  has  created  so  much  of  beauty,  and  given  so 
much  of  good. 

It  was  on  such  a  morning,  and  at  such  an  hour 
that  an  American  vessel  was  seen  v/ith  her  head  to 
the  westward,  nearly  midway  between  the  Algerine 
and  Spanish  coasts,  but  mclining  rather  to  the  shores 
of  Africa.  She  was  homeward  bound  from  Genoa  to 
New-York,  her  name  the  Clinton,  so  called  from  that 
of  a  public-spirited  and  able  governor  of  that  state ; 
her  burthen  about  350  tons,  her  condition  and  appear- 
ance of  a  very  superior  order,  and  her  force  sufficiently 


« 


I 


^20  PRESENTIMENT. 

effective  to  protect  her  against  the  ordinary  iiiaitiuders 
from  the  Barbary  shores.  The  commander  of  the 
Chnton  was  a  po.werful  looking  man,  of  the  middle 
age,  with  a  complexion  which  appeared  to  be  the 
result  of  much  hardship,  and  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  climate  in  all  its  varieties.  Like  the  generality 
^f  the  American  commanders,  he  possessed  a  degree 
of  intelligence  and  refinement  superior  to  those  of  his 
rank  and  profession  in  the  old  world.  This,  which 
was  the  result  of  a  plain  but  solid  education,  had  kept 
his  mind  clear  of  many  an  absurdity  in  opinion,  and 
many  a  credulity  for  which  the  sons  of  the  ocean 
have,  time  out  of  mind,  been  remarkable.  One  pecu- 
liarity of  feeling  was  however  his ;  but  how  it  had 
found  place  in  his  bosom  it  would  be  difficult  to  trace. 
This  was  a  belief  in  presentiment.  It  had  developed 
itself  in  him  while  a  child,  and  years  had  only  served 
to  strengthen  his  faith.  Strange  to  say — the  belief 
had  never  been  confirmed  by  practical  effects,  but  on 
the  contrary  he  adhered  to  it  against  all  experience ; 
sometimes  receiving  from  it  the  consolations  of  hope, 
at  others  experiencing  the  bitter  pangs  of  disappoint- 
ment. Still,  however,  he  clung  to  it;  and  at  the 
moment  in  which  our  story  opens,  this  powerful  feel- 
ing was  exerting  an  influence  o\er  him  greater  than 
usual. 

It  was  a  little  before  four  o'clock  that  Captain 
Thayer  ascended  the  companion  ladder,  and  having 
looked  first  aloft  aiul  then  in  the  binnacle,  he  put  his 
"•lass  to  his  eye,  and  rapidly  but  carefully  swept  the 
hori?.v)ii   to   the   southward       Afti-r    he    h;\d    repeated 


PRESENTIMENT.  1S1 

fhis  examination  two  or  three  times,  he  threw  the  glass 
across  his  arm,  and  continued  leaning,  as  in  thought, 
against  the  larboard  gangway.  From  this  reverie  he 
was  shortly  disturbed  by  the  deep  voice  of  the  first 
mate,  whose  watch  it  was  upon  deck,  calling  out  to 
the  helmsman  "  Port,  sir,  port,  do  you  want  to  run 
the  African  coast  aboard?" 

Captain  Thayer  immediately  stepped  back  to  the 
binnacle  again,  and  looked  at  the  compass ;  then, 
turning  to  the  mate,  he  said,  "  I  should  like  just  to 
make  the  land  on  the  south  shore ;  let  them  square 
away  the  yards  a  little,  and  keep  her  head  about 
S.  S.  W." 

"  I  guess  we  are  not  far  from  the  land  now,  sir," 
replied  the  mate,  "  and  if  we  should  let  the  wind  die 
away  upon  us,  the  current  may  drive  us  farther  in 
than  you  would  wish ;  and  those  cut-throat  Algerines 
would  make  a  fine  haul  of  us,  if  it  came  to  boarding." 
The  captain  was  leaning  upon  the  carriage  of  a 
gun,  as  the  mate  made  his  remark,  and  as  he  patted 
the  breech  with  his  hand  he  smiled  and  replied, 
"  No  fear,  Simson,  we  are  no  prize  for  a  corsair ;  but 
to  confess  a  truth,  I  am  anxious  to  get  in  with  the 
iand;  I  have  continually  a  presentiment  concerning 
it,  which  weighs  upon  me  beyond  endurance." 

"  Of  that,"  replied  the  mate  "  I  am  not  ignorant 
This  you  may  remember  is  my  third  year  with  yoi 
up  the  Straits ;  and  I  recollect  that  in  all  the  forme) 
voyages  you  hau.^d  in  for  the  south  side  hereabouts 
I  was  not  tl  en  in  a  condition  to  ask  your  reasons  foi 
keeping  a  course  which  is  not  generally  considered 

19- 


■Sa  PRESENTIMENT. 

safest ;  but  now  that  I  am  placed  in  my  presen-' 
situation,  perhaps  you  may  feel  inclined  to  inform  me.'' 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  too  ridiculous  to  be  confessed,"  said 
the  former,  "  yet  1  cannot  shake  it  off;  nor  would  I 
wish  to  be  without  the  hope  to  which  it  gives  birth. 
It  is  true,  as  you  say,  that  I  am  following  a  naviga- 
tion neither  usual  nor  approved  in  this  part  of  our 
voyage; — what  is  more,  I  have  steadily  done  the 
same  thing  during  eight  voyages  before  the  present 
one ;  still  more,  I  have  confined  myself  to  this  trade, 
notwithstanding  my  capital,  my  connexions,  and  my 
experience,  would  enable  me  to  come  to  permanent 
moorings  ashore,  much  sooner  than  the  line  we  are 
in  could  possibly  do.  —  But  it  is  all  in  vain,"  he  add- 
ed after  a  pause,  "here  I  return  again  and  again  ;  my 
hopes  constantly  defeated,  but  never  discouraged.  I 
dwell  on  the  cause  of  my  anxiety  continually.  I 
satisfy  myself  that  my  pursuit  is  like  chasing  the 
Flying  Dutchman,  yet  still  with  dogged  perseverance 
I  return,  in  the  forlorn  hope  that  my  constancy  may 
be  at  length  successful." 

Simson  was  a  plain  honest  seaman,  who  did  not 
understand  the  secret  workings  in  his  commander's 
heart.  He  could  perceive  the  more  obvious  results  of 
any  particular  kind  of  conduct,  and  could  judge  with 
tolerable  accuracy  of  the  probabilities  in  the  train  of 
human  events;  but  his  presr7itimcnfs  went  no  farther, 
and  he  could  not  help  considering  this  feeling  ir. 
Captain  Thayer  as  one  of  the  weaknesses  to  wJiich 
human  nature  is  prone,  and  from  which  no  man  is 
entirely  free.      He  was,  however,  strongly  attni  lu-d  to 


PRESENTIMENT.  2£ 

Thayer  under  whom  he  had  sailed  during  the  last 
three  3'ears,  and  who  had  gradually  brought  him 
forward,  from  before  the  mast  to  the  station  of  first 
mate  of  the  Clinton.  When,  therefore,  he  heard  the 
order  repeated,  he  obeyed  with  alacrity. 

"  Forward  there !  round  in  the  larboard  after 
braces,  and  then  come  aft  and  square  the  head  yards. 
Cooper,  starboard  your  helm ;  kt  her  fall  off  to  S.  S. 
W.,  and  keep  her  there." 

This  was  done,  the  watch  was  changed,  but  Captain 
Thayer  remained  walking  the  deck  with  apparent 
inquietude,  frequently  applying  the  glass  to  his  eve, 
and  always  directing  it  to  the  southern  shores. 

The  mate  could  not  avoid  perceiving  that  his  com- 
mander was,  that  morning,  more  than  usually  moved; 
he  therefore  resolved  not  to  retire  to  rest.  So  slip- 
ping below  to  perform  his  ablutions,  and  making 
some  change  in  his  dress  after  the  night  watch,  he 
began  to  move  about  the  ship,  regulating  various 
little  matters,  and  giving  sundry  orders.  It  was  some 
time  ere  Captain  Thayer  perceived  him  to  be  still  on 
deck,  so  much  was  he  absorbed  in  his  own  contem- 
plations; but  at  length  he  cried,  "how  now,  Simson. 
don't  you  turn  in  this  watch?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  mate,  "  I  don't  feel  inclined 
to  sleep,  and  would  rather  be  on  deck  to  catch  the 
land-fall." 

"  Ah,  you  are  groaning  in  spirit  like  the  timbers  of 
an  old  ship  in  a  head  sea.  You  are  thinking  or 
corsairs,  and  underwriters,  —  and  home — and  proba- 
bly love,  Simson.     Well,  you  need  not  look  so  like  f 


Dl  PRESENTIMENT. 

lubbei,  man  ;  there  is  nothing  in  those  things  that  a 
brave  man  need  be  ashamed  to  own." 

"  Captain  Thayer,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  care  as 
little  about  self  as  any  man  that  ever  trod  a  plank ; 
but  I  do  care  much  {ox  you;  (' thank' ee,  Simson,  I 
am  well  aware  of  that;')  and  you  will  excuse  me  if  I 
remind  you  that  in  the  event  of  loss  or  damage,  you 
will  have  to  account  for  running  out  of  your  course, 
and  towards  manifest  difficulties.  Underwriters  are 
hard  men  in  these  cases,  and  if " 

"Pooh,  man,"  said  Thayer,  with  an  air  of  con- 
scious security  and  triumph,  "the  Clinton  is  no  game 
for  the  corsair; — and  if  she  were,  —  she  is  half  my 
own,  and  the  other  half  I  could  pay.  —  And  I  see," 
he  added  eagerly,  "  there  is  the  land,  yonder  is  Cape 
Tenis  on  the  larboard  bow."  His  glass  was  elevated, 
and  again  he  carefully  swept  the  southern  horizon 
with  attentive  eye. 

The  mate  touched  his  elbow  as  he  stood  absorbed 
m  his  investigation,  and  said,  "  excuse  me,  Captain 
Thayer,  you  have  settled  the  affiiir  of  the  ship  and 
cargo,  but  you  have  not  calculated  the  loss  of  liberty 
to  the  people,  nor  the  difficulty  of  procuring  your  own 
liberty,  if  we  should  be  taken.  Nay,  sir,"  he  added, 
seeing  the  flush  of  anger  rising,  and  observing  the 
hasty  sparkle  in  the  captain's  eye,  "  be  not  offended, 
but  it  is  well  known  tliat  ships  as  well  provided 
against  attack  as  this  is,  have  fallen  into  tiie  hands  of 
superior  numbers  ere  now,  and  once  under  the  power 
of  the  infidels,  our  fate  may  remain  for  years  unknown; 
so  that "' 


PRESENTIMENT.  TJa 

"True,  true,"  exclaimed  Thayer  hastily,  as  if 
stung  by  a  sudden  recollection  ;  "  brace  up  the  yards. 
men;  —  luff,  luff,  bring  her  to  the  wind."  He  paused 
a  moment,  and  then  added,  "  and  yet  I  have  at  this 
moment  a  presentiment  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  that 
it  will  come  to  pass  this  morning.  I  must  try  it  a 
little  longer.  Simson,  put  her  about,  and  laij  her  to 
on  the  other  tack,  she  will  thus  forge  ahead,  off  shore, 
and  I  will  keep  h«r  so  but  one  hour  longer. 

Again  his  watch  upon  the  African  shore  became 
intensely  fixed.  In  the  mean  time  the  sun  had  risen, 
and  the  warmth  of  his  beams  was  already  beginning 
to  diffuse  a  languor  over  the  frames  of  the  mariners, 
when  suddenly  the  captain  called  out  "  mast-head 
there  !  Do  you  see  any  thing  on  the  starboard  quai 
,er  ?" 

The  man  who  was  stationed  there  replied,  after  a 
pause,  that  a  small  boat  was  apparently  pulling  out 
from  the  land.  The  captain  waited  to  hear  no  more, 
but  gave  the  command  "  ready  about."  The  manoeu- 
vre Avas  quickly  performed,  once  more  the  ship  Avas 
going  large  on  the  other  lack,  and  was  standing  in 
the  direction  of  the  distant  object. 

"  Get  the  boats  out,"  said  Captain  Thayer,  "  and 
tow  them  astern ;  Ave  may  want  them  by  and  bye.  — 
"What  all,  sir?"  returned  the  mate.  "Yes,  long 
boat  and  all.  Get  the  tackles  up,  and  hoist  her  out 
as  quickly  as  possible.  Boy,  bring  the  small  arms 
from  be.ow,  and  lay  them  beside  the  companion  " 
"I'll  have  all  ready,  at  least,"  said  he.  "  Oh,  if  it  shoulil 
indeed  b;  irue!"     The  hop^  seemed  to  produce  au 


t2£  PRESENTIMENT. 

ecstasy  of  feeling  over  him,  and  he  passed  from  side  lO 
side,  urging  dispatch,  and  every  moment  taking  a 
glance  at  the  object  of  his  pursuit. 

As  Captain  Thayer  hastily  pased  the  deck,  he 
muttered  in  agitated  tones,  "  Avill  it  indeed  come  to 
pass  at  length  ?  —  Are  my  hopes  to  be  realized  after 
the  long  suspense  which  I  have  endured?  But  I  am 
a  fool !"  he  cried  in  the  next  moment,  "the  chances 
are  a  million  to  one  against  me.  Why  am  I  so 
continually  tormented  with  hopes  which  have  no 
foundation  in  probability?  —  If  I  should  be  disappoint- 
ed this  time,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  resoliition,  "  I 
will  abandon  such  fallacious  expectations  for  ever, 
and  strive  to  make  up  my  mind  to  the  loss.  — But  if 
it  should  turn  out  to  my  wish!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
his  eyes  sparkled  with  delight,  while  his  weather- 
beaten  countenance  displayed  a  rapture  almost  incom- 
patible with  its  ordinary  rugged  expression;  —  he  said 
no  more,  but  with  his  glass  he  steadily  searched  the 
distant  boat. 

"  A  large  row-galley  is  in  the  wake  of  the  small 
boat,"  exclaimed  the  look-out  at  the  mast-head  ;  "  he 
seems  to  gain  on  the  chase." 

The  Captain  went  aloft  himself;  he  soon  assured 
himself  that  the  first  boat  contained  one  or  more 
fugitives,  and  tliat  tlie  latter  was  in  pursuit.  It  was 
also  probable  that  the  galley  would  be  up  with  the 
chase  before  the  ship  could  interfere.  He  lutstiiy 
descended  to  the  deck;  all  equanimity  seemed  to  have 
forsaken  him :  with  a  hoarse  and  agitated  voice  he 
gave  orders  to  jret  out  studding-sails  and  make  all  sai' 


PRESENTIMENT.  227 

in  the  direction  of  the  strange  objects.  '  I'l  run  him 
do^vTl,  the  heathen  dog,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  and 
unconscious  of  hearers,  "  if  -s  hundred  men  were  in 
his  charge." 

Some  of  the  seaman  were  startled  at  his  vehemence, 
but  obedience  at  sea  is  almost  an  instinct ;  the  mate, 
however,  again  advanced  and  remonstrated.  "  Capt. 
Thayer,"  said  he,  "  let  me  beg  of  you  to  beware  what 
you  do  :  a  hasty  and  fatal  proceeding  may  make  this  a 
national  affair,  depriving  you  at  once  of  honor,  happi- 
ness, and  property." 

"My  brother — my  brother!"  exclaimed  Thayer, 
with  uncontrollable  emotion,  "  my  very  soul  informs 
me  that  my  brother  is  endeavoring  to  escape  in  the 
small  boat.  Oh  God,"  said  he,  in  deep  and  heart- 
searching  tones,  "  if  my  expectations  are  defeated 
now,  I  shall  never  live  to  see  my  native  shore.  —  Ply 
the  men,  Simson,  my  good  fellow,  for  I  have  neither 
sense  nor  observation  but  for  the  chase." 

Accordingly,  every  stitch  of  canvass  was  put  upon 
the  vessel,  but  the  airs  were  light,  and  in  the  mean- 
time the  sweeps  of  the  galley  Avere  bringing  her 
rapidly  up  with  the  small  boat.  It  was  evident  that 
the  latter  could  not  e.scape  them. 

"  Load  the  larboard  forecastle  gun  with  canister, 
and  run  her  out  of  the  bow  port,"  said  the  captain. 
It  was  done.  The  two  boats  neared.  The  captain 
ran  forward,  trained  the  gun  under  his  own  eye, 
seized  the  match, — and  just  as  the  two  boats  were  on 
;he  rerge  of  touching,  he  lodged  the  contents  of  the 


IBS  PRESENTIMENT 

charge  into  the  larger.  The  galley  con  ained  at 
least  forty  men,  and  the  spread  of  the  canister  shot  did 
great  execution  among  them.  In  the  next  instant  the 
captain's  glass  was  again  applied  to  his  eye,  and 
hardly  had  he  levelled  it,  ere  he  shouted  with  a  voice 
of  thunder,  "  it  is  he,  it  is  he!  Put  arms  in  the  boats 
and  man  them.  My  brother,  my  own  brother  ! — I 
knew  it,  I  was  sure  of  it  I  — in,  men,  in;  I  will  go  in 
the  cutter  myself" 

The  men  seemed  to  enter  at  once  into  his  feelings, 
and  the  boats  were  manned  with  an  incredible  alacrity. 
Ashe  was  getting  over  the  side,  he  turned  to  the  mate 
and  said,  "  Simson,  keep  your  eye  on  that  heathen  dog, 
but  do  not  fire  unless  you  are  sure  our  own  men  are 
secure  from  the  spread.  If  he  attempt  to  escape,  — 
toith  my  brother  on  board,  pour  it  into  him.  God 
will  protect  his  own.  If  he  offers  resistance  after  we 
have  rescued  his  prey,  ruv  him  down,  sir.'^ 

The  most  discordant  passions  seemed  to  have 
possession  of  his  breast  as  he  uttered  these  words: 
the  most  unbounded  fraternal  afl^ection,  and  the  exces- 
sive desire  of  revenge,  swayed  his  soul.  He  went 
into  the  boat,  and  the  force  rowed  with  all  speed 
towards  the  Algerine. 

If  may  be  necessary  here  to  inquire  as  to  the  cause 
of  this  uncommon  emotion  on  the  part  of  the  worthy 
commander,  and  explain  the  nature  of  that  brotherly 
affection  which  was  now  manifested  in  so  exquisite  a 
degree.  To  do  this  properly,  some  account  of  the 
broihers    in   the   earl'er  period   of  their  lives,  will 


PRESFNTIMENT.  S2S 

furnish  the  elucidation,  and  the  account  may  with 
most  convenience  be  given  here,  while  the  expedition 
is  advancing  upon  its  pjrpose. 

Robert  Thayer  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  agn 
culturist,  who  cultivated  a  large  farm  of  his  o\vn 
clearing,  in  the  vicinity  of  P  ne  Plains,  near  the 
borders  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  father  was  an 
honest  and  well-meaning  man,  but  weak  of  purpose, 
and  subject  to  the  prejudices  and  opinions  of  his 
contemporaries  in  general,  who  were  at  that  period 
but  very  imperfectly  educated ;  the  mother,  however, 
made  large  amends  for  the  infirmities  and  insuffi- 
ciency of  her  husband's  domestic  management.  She 
was  a  strong-minded  prudent  Avoman,  of  genuine 
piety,  rigid  morality,  and  great  firmness.  It  was  the 
anxious  care  of  this  good  parent  to  extract  the  weeds 
of  error  from  the  soil  of  her  son's  understanding, 
before  it  should  take  too  deep  root,  yet  so  prudently 
was  this  performed,  as  to  leave  no  trace  of  disrespect 
for  her  husband's  peculiarities  in  the  eyes  of  her 
offspring.  There  was  one  weakness,  nevertheless, 
which  the  credulous  but  kind  father  indelibly  fixed 
upon  the  mind  of  young  Robert.  It  was  a  principle 
in  which  he  himself  had  implicit  belief,  and  to  confirm 
which,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  twisting  and  distorting 
every  circumstance  that  ci'ossed  the  line  of  his  creed. 
It  vf as  presentiment ;  and  occasions  on  which  that  feel- 
ing was  presented  to  his  mind,  being  sometimes  the 
harbingers  of  subsequent  facts,  were  the  never- 
ceasing  themes  of  the  father's  discourse.  It  fastened 
upon  the  sanguine  heart  of  the  boy,  and  no  lessons  of 

30 


laO  PRESENTIMENT. 

his  mother,  not  even  the  frequent  failures  in  exp<  ela- 
tion, could  remove  the  impression.  We  find  it  ojiera- 
ting  in  full  vigor,  both  in  manhood,  and  in  advancing 
age. 

What  might  have  been  tbj  results  of  perseverance 
in  that  exemplary  mother  can  be  only  conjectured. 
Robert  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  when  he  was 
only  nine  years  of  age.  Not  indeed  before  a  good 
foundation  was  laid,  and  good  seed  was  sown,  bxU 
before  it  i  juld  spring  up,  or  entirely  resist  the  weeds 
whi.'h  too  readily  choke  it.  The  boy  was  sent  to 
school,  Avhere  the  influence  of  early  habits,  and  a 
tender  remembrance  of  his  mother's  lessons,  did  more 
for  him,  than  could  the  preceptor  with  all  his  lore ; 
yet  that  was  much,  for 

"  'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too, 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terin.s  and  tides  presage. 
And  i.'en  the  story  ran  that  he  coukl  gauge; 
And  still /oWs  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  should  carry  all  he  knew." 

Hitherto,  with  the  exception  of  the  loss  of  his 
mother,  which  he  had  been  too  young  fully  to  appre- 
ciate, the  days  of  young  Thayer  had  been  of  a  halcyon 
kind.  But  the  clouds  began  to  lower.  The  elder 
Thayer,  in  the  death  of  his  amiable  wife,  discovered 
that  he  had  lost  not  only  an  invaluable  partner,  but  a 
manager  of  his  household,  and  a  contributor  to  his 
domest'c  comforts,  for  which  nothing  could  atone. 
He  tried  manfully  to  bear  up  under  it,  but  no  resources 
frotn  within,  nor  varieties  from  without,  could  satisfy 
him.     At  length,  b?  was  heard  to  close  a  jeremiad  ol 


PRESENTIMENT.  S31 

complaint  with  the  following  expression :  "  I  have  a 
strong  presentiment  that  I  shall  shortly  follow  my 
poor  Rachel,  or  else — marry  again."  The  latter 
branch  of  his  foresight  was  correct  enough,  for  the 
week  after  it  was  uttered,  he  brought  home  from 
New- York  a  buxom  ^irl,  some  years  younger  than 
himself,  the  daughter  of  a  Dutch  provision-merchant 
in  Water-street,  whom  he  had  taken  "  for  better,  for 
worse."  It  was,  however,  more  worse  than  better, 
both  for  her  husband  and  her  son-in-law.  With 
regard  to  the  former,  she  was  continually  upsetting 
his  schemes,  and  ridiculing  his  presentiments,  both  of 
which  were  his  weak  or  rather  his  strong  points ;  for 
che  more  he  was  opposed  the  better  he  liked  them, 
the  more  she  endeavored  to  lower  them  the  higher 
they  were  raised  in  his  esteem.  But  like  all  men 
without  internal  strength,  he  gradually  succumbed  to 
a  noisy  shrew,  who  soon  exercised  unlimited  sway 
in  the  family. 

Of  course,  Robert  soon  fell  in  for  a  full  share  of  the 
good  dame's  dislike ;  for,  besides  the  hereditary 
cause,  that,  namely,  of  his  being  a  step-son,  he  was 
fond  of  his  ather,  to  whom  he  behaved  always  with 
aflfectionate  regard  and  duty,  and  he  deeply  revered 
the  memory  of  his  mother,  of  whom  he  spoke  more 
highly  and  more  frequently  than  was  agreeable  to  the 
ears  of  her  successor.  She  therefore  resolved  mosTL 
piously  to  mar  a  happiness  in  which  she  had  no 
share,  and  even  to  rid  the  house  of  an  "expensive  boy. 
who  was  none  of  hers." 

In  this   she   was,    of  course,   successful.     Unde? 


432  PRESENTIMENT. 

pretence  that  lie  was  old  enough  to  assist  on  ^he  farm, 
she  caused  him  to  be  taken  from  scliool ;  and  then, 
by  finding  fault  with  every  thing  he  did,  she  made 
him  feel  his  home  to  be  any  thing  but  what  the  word 
implies.  His  father  saw  it  all  witli  regret,  but  the 
shackles  were  upon  his  own  energies,  and  all  that  he 
could  do  for  their  mutual  relief,  was  to  take  his  son  with 
him,  from  time  to  time,  to  New- York,  when  he  went 
with  a  sloop-load  of  butter,  cheese,  or  flour,  for  the 
market  there. 

The  boy  had  a  double  reason  to  hail  the  periods  of 
these  excursions.  They  brought  him  into  the  busy 
haunts  of  men,  where  he  saw  commerce  with  her 
anxious  face,  pleasure  with  her  witching  smile,  and 
variety  in  all  her  charms  ;  he  felt,  besides,  that  he  was 
for  the  present  beyond  the  sphere  of  a  tyrannical  step- 
mother, and  needed  not  to  guard  his  words  or  hide 
his  delight.  But  his  attention  was  chiefly  engaged 
by  the  shipping ;  and  he  often  longed  to  make  a 
voyage,  to  see  foreign  parts,  and  to  be  "  lord  of  him- 
self" These  desires  became  stronger  at  each  visit, 
and  were  always  the  highest  when  he  was  about  to 
return  home. 

At  length  Mrs.  Thayer  found  herself  "  as  ladies 
wish  to  be  who  love  their  lords ;"  and  Robert,  now 
fifteen  years  of  age,  was  more  than  ever  disagreeable 
in  her  sight.  His  father's  house  was  no  longer  an 
endurable  home,  and  upon  the  next  journey  to  New- 
York,  he  declared  his  anxious  wish  to  go  to  sea. 
"  Father,"  said  he,  "  I  have  long  wished  to  make  a 
(rial,  and  /  ha.ve  a  presentiment  that  you  will  see  me 


PRESENTIMENT.  2H 

a  rich  and  fortunate  man, — able,  and   I  am  sure  you 
believe,  willing,  to  make  your  old  days  happy  " 

The  father  was  loth  to  part  with  his  son,  but  the 
'presentiment  was  unanswerable.  Arrangements  were 
made,  clothes  and  necessaries  were  bought,  and  all 
things  were  concluded,  except  the  ceremony  of  asking 
Mrs.  Thayer's  conseni,  in  which  neither  of  them 
dreamed  of  a  refusal ;  and  here,  without  a  presenti- 
ment, they  Avere  right.  After  a  feigned  anger  and 
appearance  of  sorrow,  but  real  delight,  at  the  boy's 
apparent  wilfulness,  she  consented  to  let  him  "  feel 
the  difference  between  a  safe  and  comfortable  home, 
and  a  life  of  hardship  among  strangers  in  distant 
lands."  He  was  therefore  equipped,  and  in  due  time 
set  sail  upon  a  long  voyage  to  the  western  shores  of 
America. 

From  this  time  his  lot  in  life  was  fixed.  He 
became  a  seaman ;  he  loved  his  profession  and  soon 
excelled  in  it ;  he  was  quickly  discovered  to  be  a 
youth  of  superior  parts  and  manners,  and  it  required 
no  presentiment  to  see  that  if  he  escaped  the  ordinary 
dangers  of  human  life,  and  those  peculiar  to  his  own 
department  in  it,  he  would  rise  to  eminence  and 
wealth.  On  his  return  to  New- York  after  any 
voyage,  his  father  always  came  down  to  visit  him,  as 
his  duties  prevented  him  from  going  up  to  Pine  Plains. 
He  learned  that  his  mother-in-law  had  miscarried,  and 
had  with  difliculty  recovered ;  but  with  sorrow  he  also 
learned  that  this  catastrophe,  instead  of  softening  her 
into  affection  towards  the  young  sailor,  had  only 
faise^  a  feeling  of  env\    in  her  soul,  and  she  wa* 

20- 


m  PRESENTIMENT 

continually  prognosticatirg  evil  in  her  husband's  ear, 
against  the  heartless  young  ingrate,  "  Avho  could 
ramble  the  world  over  rather  than  stay  to  comfort  the 
declining  years  of  his  parents."  All  this,  however, 
fell  harmles?,  for  the  meek  husband  had  it  all  tc 
himself,  and  he  had  taken  on  the  yoke  so  easily,  that 
he  hardly  felt  its  weight.  But  the  presentiment  ol 
his  boy  was  ever  before  him ;  it  became  his  stay  and 
comfort. 

Upon  Robert's  return  from  another  voyage  round 
Cape  Horn,  he  again  found  his  father  waiting  to 
receive  him,  but  wearing  the  badge  of  a  mourner. 
"Robert,  my  son,"  said  he,  "poor  Sally  is  gone,  and 
has  left  the  child  of  her  wishes  as  soon  as  he  saw  the 
light.  Come  home  with  me,  and  embrace  i/om 
brother.^'  Robert's  heart  leaped  within  him  at  the 
sound.  The  tie  was  a  new  one,  and  his  affectionate 
disposition  led  him  to  cherish  it  with  even  a  woman's 
ardor.  "  Father,"  said  he,  "  /  have  a  presentiment, 
that  this  boy  will  be  a  comfort  and  a  blessing  to  us 
both."  Poor  lad!  his  divinations  were  erroneous, 
and  their  futility  was  quickly  demonstrated. 

Robert's  heart  clung  to  his  infant  brother.  It  was 
a  new  feeling,  and  was  rather  like  that  of  a  parent 
for  his  offspring  tlian  that  of  fraternal  affection.  Too 
soon  he  had  indeed  to  become  a  second  parent  to  the 
child,  for  his  own  sickened  and  died  Avithin  a  few 
days  after  his  son's  return  to  the  paternal  mansion 
Robert  was  now  alone  in  the  world,  save  this  tie. 
which  had  been  mysteriously  conjured  up  to  receive 
the  full  tide  of  kindness,  and  to  bind   bini  to  social 


PRESENTIMENT  235 

life.  He  determined  to  watch  over  the  boy's  life  and 
happiness,  and  to  derive  his  own  greatest  comfort 
from  contributing  to  that  of  his  orphan  brother.  At 
this  time  he  was  about  eighteen,  and  was  on  the  eve 
of  a  voyage  to  the  Mauritius,  as  mate  of  a  ship.  He 
therefore  carefully  but  speedily  put  the  infant  Henry 
into  the  hands  of  a  kind  nurse,  and  left  his  own 
affairs,  including  the  paternal  inheritance,  in  the 
charge  of  an  honest  but  distant  relative. 

Things  continued  thus  during  several  voyages,  in 
the  course  of  which  Robert  Thayer  attained  to  the 
command  of  a  vessel.  At  each  return  his  first  care 
was  to  visit  the  child  of  his  adoption,  the  brother  of  his 
affection,  and  all  his  resources  were  bent  to  the  desire 
of  contributing  to  the  boy's  happiness  and  welfare. 
On  the  part  of  Henry,  as  he  grew  up,  his  love  for  his 
brother  seemed  more  and  more  to  respond  to  that 
which  was  bestowed  upon  him,  and  in  short  it  might 
be  said  that  there  was  but  one  sentiment  between 
them,  save  that  it  was  pure  fraternal  love  on  the  part 
of  Robert,  and  love  increased  by  gratitude  on  the 
side  of  Henry. 

Henry  Thayer  had  attained  his  fifteenth  year,  when 
the  first  personal  misfortune  in  the  professional  careei* 
of  his  brother  befel  him.  Captain  Thayer  had  taken 
a  cargo  for  London ;  from  thence  he  had  taken  in  a 
valuable  freight  for  Malaga,  and  brought  back  returns 
in  wine  and  fruits  for  his  native  port.  At  London, 
the  crew  had  deserted  him ;  some  from  that  restless 
disposition  so  peculiar  to  the  generality  of  sea-faring 
men,  and  others  from  the  hope  of  advantages,  such  as 


836  PRESENTIMENT. 

the  American  seaman,  above  all  others,  can  obta  «  n 
the  maritime  world.  In  short,  he  had  to  ship  an 
almost  entirely  fresh  crew,  and  they  turned  out  to  be 
of  a  very  nferior  description.  Nothing  particular 
happened  in  the  voyage  to  Malaga;  but  on  the  return 
across  the  Atlantic,  in  the  month  of  January,  they 
encountered  bad  weather,  and  many  of  his  lubberly 
crew  betook  themselves  to  their  hammocks.  With 
the  few  men  who  continued  at  their  duty,  he  continued 
to  work  the  ship,  but,  unfortunately,  just  as  they  were 
entering  the  gulf-stream,  a  sudden  squall  carried  away 
two  of  his  topmasts. 

It  was  night  when  this  disaster  took  place,  and, 
together  with  the  reduced  force  under  his  command, 
he  ran  imminent  risk  of  damage  in  two  ways ;  first, 
in  his  upper  works,  by  the  dashing  about  of  broken 
yards  and  masts  as  they  hung  by  the  rigging,  and 
serondly,  in  his  hull,  after  the  wreck  was  cut  over- 
board. Poor  Thayer  was  unfortunate  in  both  cases. 
While  using  his  utmost  endeavors  with  his  remnant 
of  a  crew  to  get  the  wreck  cut  overboard,  the  maintop 
gallant  yard-arm  struck  him  on  the  head  with  such 
violence,  as  to  cause  a  severe  contusion.  He  was 
borne  insensible  to  his  cabin,  and  a  most  important 
assistance  was  thus  cut  off!  The  rigging  and  wreck, 
in  falling  afterward  overboard,  fell  over  to  leeward, 
and,  before  it  could  be  cut  entir(>ly  away,  had  damaged 
the  vessel  under  the  bows  so  greatly,  that  it  became 
necessary  to  keep  the  hands  to  the  pumps. 

It  was  now  no  longer  necessary  to  urge  the  skulk- 
ers to  their  duty.     Self-preservation  will  furnish  an 


PRc'ENTIMENT.  997 

argument  which  indolence  herself  cannot  resist.  The 
misfortune  which  faithfulness  and  alacrity  might  pro- 
bably have  prevented,  necessity  enabled  them  m  some 
degree  to  remedy ;  though  at  the  expense  ol  greatly 
increased  labor,  and  unlooked-for  danger.  Of  the  latter, 
however,  there  was  more  in  store.  In  the  crippled 
state  of  the  upper  works,  and  the  all  but  water-logged 
condition  of  the  vessel,  she  sailed  heavily  and  was 
steered  with  difficulty.  At  length,  however,  the 
welcome  lands  of  Neversink  were  presented  to  their 
view,  and  they  began — ah,  too  prematurely — to 
congratulate  each  other,  that  their  toils  were  at  a 
close.  Heavily  they  neared  Sandy-Hook,  and  hove 
to  for  a  pilot ;  hours  passed,  and  no  pilot  appeared, 
while  the  experienced  head  and  eye  of  her  commander, 
which  could  have  directed  her  through  the  intricacies 
of  the  small  remaining  navigation,  were  unhappily 
withdrawn  through  the  severity  of  his  wounds  and 
bruises. 

Evening  arrived,  and  i.o  pilot.  The  mate,  there- 
fore, reluctantly  resolved  to  stand  out  to  sea-ward 
during  the  night,  and  hoped  for  better  success  on  the 
morrow.  That  evil,  most  to  be  dreaded  on  our  coasts, 
a  sno.v-storm,  came  on:  the  wind  gradually  shifted 
until  the  ship's  head  was  lying  northwest,  and  bearing 
directly  towards  the  Long-Island  shores.  It  became 
necessary  to  wear  round,  but  by  this  time  the  running 
rigging  was  as  stiff  as  icicles;  the  few  men  able  to 
work  could  neither  stand,  by  reason  of  the  s.ipperi- 
ness  of  the  deck,  nor  exert  themselves  from  the  exces- 
sive severity  of  the  cold,  and  constant  fall  of  sleet 


m  PREfiENTIMENT. 

which  benumbed  all  their  limbs.  The  rope?  would 
not  render  through  the  blocks,  and  to  crown  all,  the 
ship  would  not  answer  her  helm.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Human  strength  and  human  wisdom  could 
no  more.  It  was  in  vain  that  inward  sentiments  of 
remorse  struck  some  of  the  lately  indolent  crew.  The 
energies  produced  by  despair  were  too  late  for  action. 
On  she  drove,  until  at  length  a  harsh  grating  was 
perceived  under  her  bows,  a  jumping,  beating  sensa- 
tion followed  as  the  vessel  was  forced  upon  the  sand, 
— one  sudden  shock,  a  heel  to  one  side, — and  she 
was  a  wreck  upon  the  shore. 

Happily,  no  lives  were  lost.  —  In  the  morning 
intelligence  was  transmitted  to  New- York  of  the 
calamity  which  had  befallen  the  ship,  and  Captain 
Thayer,  half  dead  with  shame  and  weakness,  was 
carried  to  the  city.  A  long  series  of  good  fortune 
and  success  furnishes  but  an  indifferent  school  of 
fortitude  under  subsequent  misfortune.  As  inferior 
officer,  and  as  commander,  Thayer  had  hitherto 
brought  his  voyages  to  a  prosperous  issue;  now,  a 
sense  of  so  fatal  a  reverse  preyed  upon  his  thoughts, 
and  tended  greatly  to  retard  his  recovery.  His 
affectionate  brother  was  howe'er  by  hi?  bedside, 
watching  every  look,  preveiitii^g  every  wish,  imd 
striving,  by  a  thousand  assiduities,  to  smooth  the 
siclf  bed,  and  to  restore  his  mind  to  composure. 
It  is  only  when  the  soul  is  under  the  influence  of 
remorse  that  such  endeavors  fail,  and  accordingly  the 
genial  effects  of  brotherly  kindness,  and  of  his  own 
wiser  thoughts,  now  begr.  •.  to  appear.     He  recovered 


PRESENTIMENT.  ^ 

but  his  regards  had  so  fastened  upon  the  boy,  that, 
when  the  latter  proposed  to  accompany  his  brother  in 
his  next  voyage,  although  Captain  Thayer  had  des- 
tined hin  for  another  and  more  brilliant  lot  in  life,  he 
had  not  the  resolution  to  deny  him.  He  had  his 
reward,  for  his  profession,  to  which  he  was  always 
attached,  now  became  doubly  delightful.  Every 
occasion  was  laid  hold  of  to  instruct  his  brother  in 
the  duties  of  a  seaman,  and  pains  and  expense  were 
lavished,  during  the  brief  intervals  of  their  being  in 
port,  to  make  him  an  able  navigator  and  scientific 
man. 

Five  years  had  thus  passed  over,  when  one  morn- 
ing at  breakfast,  in  London,  the  younger  Thayer, 
with  some  hesitation,  addressed  the  elder  to  the  follow- 
ing effect.  "  Brother  Robert,  I  have  somewhat  to 
propose  to  you, — and  yet  I  know  not  how  to  begin 
it, —  such  has  been  your  uniform  kindness  to  me,  that 
no  parent  could  have  gone  beyond  you; — but  I  feel 
it  due  to  us  both,  to  lay  my  wishes  before  you ;  and  I 
think  —  I  hope — that  is,  I  .link  you  will  accord 
with  me,  that  the  step  should  be  taken." 

"Well,  Harry,  what  is  it? — Speak  out,  man, 
never  stammer  thus,  but,  if  it  is  fit  to  be  heard,  tell 
your  story  boldly.     Am  I  not  your  brother?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Robert,  more  than  that !  brother  and 
father  in  one; — but,  I  fear  that  even  your  affection 
will  thwart  the  proposal  I  wish  to  make." 

"  It  must  be  very  unreasonable  then,  Harry — but, 
once  more,  out  with  it." 

Henry    after    ?    slight    and    ao-itated    indecision, 


■<>iO  PRESENTIMENT. 

proceeded.  "  You  know,  my  dear  Robert,  that  the 
sea  is  now  decidedly  my  profession,  and  it  behoves 
me  to  know  it  welj  in  all  its  bearings.  I  ought  to  be 
acquainted  with  the  best  and  with  the  worst  of  it, 
with  the  practice  of  foreign  nations,  as  well  as  with 
that  of  our  own,  and  above  all,  I  ought  to  know  how 
to  be  left  to  my  own  resources.  Now,  hitherto,  your 
tenderness  has  warded  off  from  me  many  a  difficulty 
and  hardship,  to  which  the  life  of  a  seaman  is  ob- 
noxious. It  has  been  all  calms  and  sunshine  with  me, 
and  I  know  not  how  I  should  act  in  a  sudden  emergen- 
cy. I  would  propose  therefore  —  not  that  we  should 
separate  long,"  he  added,  speaking  rapidly,  "  but  — 
that  I  should  make  a  voyage  or  two  in  British  or 
other  foreign  bottoms,  and  then  I  will  return,  and 
either  sail  with  you  or  for  you ;  for  it  will  be  fit  that 
you  should  begin  to  take  some  repose  after  your 
labors." 

Captain  Thayer  was  utterly  confounded.  He  had 
never  for  a  moment  contemplated  the  possibility  of  a 
separation ;  but  happy  in  the  present  posture  of  affairs, 
he  had  gone  on  from  voyage  to  voyage,  from  year  to 
year,  seeing  his  young  and  sprightly  brother  accumu- 
late knowledge,  and  strength,  acquiring  the  love  o< 
the  var.ious  crews,  by  whom  he  was  from  time  to 
time  surrounded;  and  in  the  continued  feeling  of  eacJi 
succeeding  hour  had  never  dreamed  of  change.  It  was 
put  to  him  now  however,  with  plain  good  sense,  to 
which  his  own  responded  ;  but  lie  would  fain  have 
combated  his  own  judgment  in  favor  of  private  regard. 
The  younger  Thayer  persevered,  and  finally  caTied 


PRESiiNTiMENT.  2*. 

fie  day.  With  a  heavy  heart,  and  with  a  presenti- 
ment of  ill-fortune,  Captain  Thayer  accompanied  his 
brother  among  the  merchants  and  shipmasters,  in 
order  to  procure  for  him  the  office  of  second  mate  of 
a  West-Indiaman ;  for,  though  fully  capable  to  taking 
the  superior  charge  of  first  mate,  in  which  capacity 
he  had  sailed  two  voyages,  yet  in  pursuance  of  his 
purpose  he  determined  for  the  lower  grade.  He 
obtained  it  without  difficulty;  and  with  strong  feelings 
of  regret,  but  with  unalterable  regard,  the  brothers 
parted,  after  arranging  a  steady  and  punctual  corres- 
pondence. 

For  many  a  day  they  were  doomed  to  be  separated. 
Many  an  anxious,  many  a  painful  hour  was  the  result 
of  this  separation.  That  which  in  the  pride  of  human 
foresight  had  been  considered  laudable  and  w-ise,  was 
the  prolific  source  of  misfortune  and  anxiety,  and 
should  teach  mankind,  in  the  midst  of  ambitious 
projects,  to 

"  Walk  humbly  then  —  with  trembling  pinions  soar." 

The  vessel  m  which  Henry  Thayer  was  embark- 
ed, was  returning  from  Barbadoes,  at  the  time  that 
the  expedition  under  Lord  Exmouth  was  fitted  out  for 
Algiers.  They  were  boarded  by  one  of  the  ships  of 
the  squadron,  and  young  Thayer  was  impressed. 
In  vain  he  urged  that  he  was  an  American  citizen, 
and  not  liable  to  such  a  forcible  seizure.  In  vain, 
also,  the  captain  of  the  merchantman  protested  against 
the  violence.  In  both  cases  it  was  believed,  as  was 
sometimes  the  case,  that  the  reasons  were  assumed  to 

21 


iAS.  PRESENTIMENT. 

save  the  man,  particularly  as  young  Thayir  hal  not 
his  credentials  to  produce.  Moreover  there  was 
probably  an  additional  reason  in  secret,  that  [i  he 
were  really  American,  they  might  be  able  to  retain 
him  from  the  difficulty  of  conveying  information,  or 
of  any  one  stirring  in  his  behalf  Be  that  as  it  might, 
he  was  impressed,  and  his  first  sensations  were  those 
of  the  most  unqualified  indignation.  He  soon  found, 
however,  that  in  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  a  man 
of  war,  the  only  refuge  is  a  present  submission,  and 
he  resolved  to  do  the  duties  which  were  imposed  upon 
him  cheerfully.  This  was  a  wise  resolution ;  he 
acquired  by  it  the  regard  of  his  officers,  and  if  he 
could  have  determined  to  pursue  his  profession  in 
that  line,  he  would  probably  have  met  the '  fullest 
encouragement.     But  this  was  not  to  be. 

The  squadron  reached  its  destination,  the  bombard- 
ment took  place,  and  the  Algerines  were  for  the 
movienl  humbled.  Young  Thayer,  who  had  been 
made  coxswain  of  one  of  the  boats,  was  coming  off 
from  the  shore  with  his  officer.  It  was  evening,  and 
somewhat  later  than  usual.  They  were  carrying  a 
press  of  canvas,  in  order  to  reach  the  vessel  before 
dark,  when  suddenly  they  were  upset  by  a  squall. 
The  people  were  presently  in  the  boat  again,  and  it 
was  righted; — but  the  coxswain  was  missing.  He 
had  been  thrown  clear  of  the  sails,  and  was  picked 
up  py  a  small  boat,  in  which  were  three  fishermen. 
They  immediately  pulled  away  with  him,  in  a  direc- 
tion to  the  westward  of  the  city,  and  landed  liim  in  an 
obscure   creek,    where   there  were  other   boats  of  n 


PRESENTIMENT.  843 

similar  description  to  their  own.  Deeply  resenting 
the  humiliation  to  which  their  city  had  been  subject- 
ed by  the  British  commander,  and  their  revenge 
being  farther  whetted  by  the  consideration  that  it  was 
"  Christian  dogs"  who  had  inflicted  the  injury,  their 
first  impulse  was  to  put  him  to  death.  Cupidity, 
however,  triumphed  even  over  revenge ;  or  rather, 
they  thought  of  enjoying  a  double  revenge,  by  selling 
their  victim  into  captivity.  They  departed  with  him, 
therefore,  several  miles  into  the  interior,  and  found 
no  difficulty  in  disposing  of  him ;  where  he  was  kept 
to  hard  labor,  for  which  his  compensation  was  starva 
tion,  insult,  and  stripes. 

It  was  now  that  the  young  man  regretted  his 
fancied  sagacity,  and  wished  that  he  had  listened  to 
his  brother's  remonstrances.  But  it  was  too  late  to 
repine,  and  his  elastic  spirits  were  sustained  by  the 
hope  of  escape.  To  this  object  he  bent  all  his  ener- 
gies, and  this  end  he  never  ceased  to  have  in  view ; 
but  the  state  of  a  christian  slave  in  Algiers  is  one  of 
such  unmitigated  rigor,  and  the  poor  wretches  are 
vmder  such  a  perpetual  surveillance,  that  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year,  passed  away  without 
offering  him  an  effectual  opportunity.  He  had, 
indeed,  made  some  progress  in  an  acquaintance  with 
an  English  renegado,  who  acted  in  the  capacity  of 
superintendent;  but  Thayer  was  slow  to  make  a 
conndant  of  one  who  had  renounced  his  faith.  By 
degrees,  however,  he  was  induced  to  think  better  of 
the  man,  who  protested  that  he  had  never  swerved  in 
heart  from  the  relicion  o^  Christ,  but  imagined  that 


214  PRESENTIMENT 

ne  might  dissemble  for  the  sake  of  relaxation,  and 
the  hope  of  ultimate  liberty.  Thayer  admitted  the 
plea  in  extenuation,  as  coming  from  one  whose  prin- 
ciples had  not  been  perfectly  fortified,  but  failed  not 
to  urge  upon  him  the  insult  he  had  offered,  and  the 
want  of  confidence  he  had  sho^ATi  to  the  God  in  whom 
he  professed  to  trust.  They  gradually  became  assured 
in  each  other,  and  a  plan  was  concocted  of  making 
their  way  to  the  sea-side,  seizing  a  boat,  pulling  oflf 
into  the  wide  Mediterranean,  and  then  trust  to  Provi- 
dence to  be  taken  up  by  some  friendly  vessel.  They 
did  so,  but  were  missed  from  the  mansion  of  their 
patron  sooner  than  they  had  expected.  A  large  boat 
was  launched  in  pursuit  of  them;  whilst  they,  know- 
ing that  liberty  or  death  were  before  them,  strained 
every  nerve  to  escape. 

In  the  meantime.  Captain  Thayer  became  acquaint- 
ed with  the  impressment  of  his  brother,  and  imme- 
diately a  process  Avas  instituted  for  his  restitution. 
An  order  was  sent  out  for  the  prompt  discharge  of 
Henry  Thayer ;  but,  by  the  earliest  returns,  a  report 
was  brought  that  the  young  man  had  perished  by  the 
upsetting  of  a  boat  in  the  bay.  The  detail  of  the 
circumstances  left  an  impression  on  the  mind  ot 
Thayer,  that  his  brother  had  not  perished,  but  was 
among  the  Algerines.  He  would  not  give  way  to  a 
contrary  belief,  but  rather  fortified  himself  in  his 
opmion,  by  all  kinds  of  delusive  reasoning.  His 
fresentiment  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  the  farther 
it  was  removed  from  probability  ;  and  ho  immediately 
changed  his  line  of  inding  to  a  permanen    Alediterra- 


PRESENTIMENT.  84E 

nean  voyage,  in  the  forlorn  hope  that  his  brother 
woull  break  from  his  restraint,  aiad  that  he  should 
have  the'  satisfaction  to  bear  him  away.  —  Constantly, 
ir  going  up  or  coming  down  that  sea,  he  edged 
towards  the  southern  shore,  and  always  kept  the  flag 
of  his  country  displayed.  But  hitherto  without 
success. 

At  length,  how  extravagant  soever  they  might  be, 
the  visions  of  his  hope  seemed  on  the  eve  of  realiza- 
tion. He  saw  the  boats,  he  prepared  himself  for  the 
interesting  result,  and  they  were  now  coming  to  the 
issue. 

The  scattering  shot  from  the  ship,  as  has  been 
already  observed,  wounded  two  or  three  persons  in 
the  large  boat,  and  caused  a  momentary  confusion. 
This  was  succeeded  by  rage  and  fury,  and  presently 
fresh  way  was  given  towards  the  devoted  fugitives. 
They  approached,  they  nearly  touched,  —  when  the 
long-boat  of  the  American  shot  in  between,  and  m 
the  same  instant  Captain  Thayer,  standing  up  in  the 
stern-sheets,  knocked  overboard  the  moor  in  the  bow 
of  the  adversary.  In  the  same  instant  two  shots 
were  heard  from  the  infidel  vessel,  one  of  which 
grazed  Thayer's  left  shoulder,  and  the  other  caused  a 
piercing  shriek  from  the  flying  boat.  He  hastily 
turned,  and  beheld  his  half  rescued  brother  covered 
mth  gore  that  was  streaming  from  his  forehead. 

Maddened  at  the  sight,  he  sprung  into  the  boat 
which  contained  him,  exclaiming  to  his  men,  *'  kill, 
kill  the  dogs;  — no  quarter — my  brother — my  pool 
murdered  Harry  "     The  word  operated  like  magic 


246  PRESENT    MENT. 

on  his  people — they  fought  like  desperadoes, — andU 
say  truth,  so  did  the  Algerines;  but  the  vessel  was 
Hearing  them,  and  though  foaming  with  rage,  impo- 
tent rage,  at  the  loss  of  their  captives,  and  the  destruc- 
tion among  their  own  people,  they  were  obliged  to 
retreat. 

In  the  mean  while  Captain  Thayer  was  holding  his 
bleeding  brother  to  his  breast,  calling  him  by  all  the 
endearing  names  that  fervent  affection  and  agitated 
spirits  could  suggest.  "  Harry,"  he  cried,  "  my  own 
boy,  my  brother  Harry  ;  —  live,  live,  oh  live,  and  bless 
your  poor  Robert's  old  days  as  you  promised.  —  You 
are  rescued,  you  are  free,  my  Harry.  Here,  men," 
he  cried  to  his  people  who  had  now  ceased  fighting, 
"  let  the  dogs  go,  lay  hold  of  the  painter,  and  tow  us 
alongside  as  quickly  as  possible.  —  Harry,  look  al 
me  —  show  me,  only  by  your  eyes,  that  you  know  me, 
and  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

The  poor  young  man  slowly  lifted  up  his  languid 
eyes,  and  a  faint  smile  indicated  that  he  was  sensible 
as  to  who  held  him. 

"  That  will  do,  that  will  do,  my  boy,  my  own  boy  — 
don't  speak  now,  don't  speak.  Pull  away,  boys,  for 
dear  life.  Give  way,  my  hearties.  —  I'll  make  the 
fortune  of  every  man  of  ye.'  He  again  hung  over 
the  sufferer,  with  mingled  anguish  and  delight, 
stanching  the  blood  with  his  handkerchief,  and  con- 
tinually forbidding  him  to  stir  or  sjieak. 

They  arrived  at  the  ship.  The  careful  mate,  who 
had  seen  all  that  passed,  had  got  n  whip  and  a  chair 
rigged,  and  in  one  minute  more  he  was  on  board  and 


PRESENTIMENT.  247 

m  llic  cabin.  —  Vain  cares,  vain  hopes  ;  A  few  heavy 
groans  were  uttered  by  the  sufferer,  each  of  which 
went  to  his  brother's  heart;  —  presently  afterwards, 
he  articulated  faintly,  "  Robert  —  my  dear  Robert." 

"Here,  Harry,  here — here  is  Robert — be  -^uiet. 
and  take  rest,  my  dear  lad." 

"  Dear  Robert — "  whispered  the  dying  man  — 
"so  —  happy — to  see  you — once — again."  After  a 
pause,  he  again  faUered — "dying — Robert  —  Lord, 
be  merciful  —  God  bless  you — my  brother."  —  He 
was  no  more. 

It  was  a  few  moments  ere  Captain  Thayer  could 
believe  the  reality  of  his  loss  When  convinced  that 
he  was  gone,  he  remained  a  short  time  as  in  a  stupor 
of  grief;  but  by  degrees  his  brows  knit,  his  face  was 
suffused  with  blood,  the  veins  of  his  temples  swelled. 
He  rushed  on  deck,  where  he  found  the  breeze  fresh- 
ening towards  a  gale. 

"  Set  the  foresail,  haul  aft  the  lee  clew  of  the  main- 
sail." It  was  done.  "  Away  aloft,  and  let  out  every 
reef  Clap  on  all  sail.  Go  you,  sir,"  added  he,  with 
a  dark  and  mysterious  expression,  to  the  helmsman, 
"  lend  a  hand,  I'll  take  the  helm  meanwhile." 

The  seamen  were  aloft; — the  keen  eye  of  Thayer 
marked  the  track  of  the  retreating  boat; — he  steered 
right  into  her  wake,  and  regardless  of  the  cries  of  the 
wretched  Moors,  and  of  his  own  crew,  —  he  went  clear 
over  them,  destroying  every  man.  Looking  over  the 
taffrail,  he  viewed  with  his  own  eyes  the  destruction 
he  had  committed,  he  gloated  over  it,  as  a  most 
acceptable  sacrifice,  and  uttering  a  lauglr  of  the  most 


34t  PRESENTIMENT. 

horrific  sound,  he  sank  exhausted  on  the  deck.  He 
was  taken  below,  Avhere  after  some  time  he  recovered 
to  life, — but  not  to  reason. 

His  employment  from  henceforth  was  to  talk  of,  or 
to  his  deceased  brother,  and  so  much  Avas  he  wrap- 
ped up  in  the  corse,  that  it  was  found  difficult  to  inter 
the  latter  in  the  deep  waters.  But  the  health  of  the 
crew  required  it,  and  opportunity  was  taken,  whilst 
the  po' '  .iianiac  slept,  to  consign  the  unfortunate 
yoT'.>  man  to  his  watery  tomb.  —  But  their  precau- 
*■'  -,  were  fruitless.  At  the  very  moment,  the  aAA'ful 
.noment,  when  the  body  was  launched  over  the  gang- 
way, a  sudden  rush  was  heard,  a  splash  followed,  and 
it  was  found  that,  even  in  death,  poor  Thayer  would 
not  be  divided  from  the  child  of  his  hopes  and 
afTections. 


KAATSKILL. 


——"Like  the  bird,  just  'scaped 
Prom  the  close  caging  of  some  gentle  dame> 
<Showing  its  freedom's  consciousness  in  song 
Not  less  th<in  flight" 


When  to  tie  city's  crowded  streets 
The  fiercer  spells  of  summer  come, 

Then,  for  thy  calm  and  cool  retreats. 

Sweet  Kaatskill !  may  the  wanderer  loam. 

Then  may  he  seek  thy  guardian  haunts. 
Thy  quiet  stream,  thy  shady  tree. 

And,  while  the  world  around  him  pants, 
From  all  oppression  find  him  free. 

Ahove  him  towers  thy  giant  form. 
Rock-heaved,  and  rising  like  a  king ; 

Around  him  rides  thy  summer  storm. 
With  cooling  freshness  on  its  wing ! 


8B0'  KAATSKILL. 

Below  him  —  what  a  scene  is  there! 

The  hallowed,  sweet  repose  of  home , 
The  sheltered  green,  the  waters  clear. 

And,  snugly  small,  the  cottage  dome 

Gatherinfif  above,  the  thickening  clouds 
The  sun's  intenser  beams  would  chide, 

In  quiet,  but  cummiugling  crowds, 
Down-bending  to  the  unbroken  tide. 

See,  where  the  boatman  speeds  his  barque 
As  sped  the  Indian  chief  of  old, 

Bound  on  some  errand,  wild  and  dark, 
Whose  story  is  as  yet  untold. 

Proof  of  the  sacred,  sweet  repose, 
The  farmer's  cattle  seek  the  place, 

And,  as  the  waters  round  them  close, 
Give  to  the  scene  an  added  grace — 

The  grace  of  home,  the  charming  cot, 
Domestic  peace,  imbroken  joy. 

Known  only  to  the  humble  lot  — 
Dreamed  only  by  the  enthusiast  boy. 

Yet,  not  alone  his  dream,  since  here 
Nature  has  nobly  done  hor  pan ; 

And,  ill  her  colors,  prompt  and  clear, 
A  kindred  triumph  comes  from  art 


KAATSKILL.  261 

Thus,  to  the  city,  well  transferred, 

The  painter's  pencil  bears  the  scene  — 

And  there  the  streamlet,  there  the  bird, 
The  forest,  and  the  summer's  green. 

There  glides  the  barque,  there  lies  the  tree  — 

The  quiet  cottage  heaves  in  sight, 
Until  each  form,  again,  I  see. 

That  once  could  give  my  heart  delight. 

Clauee. 


WASHINGTON 


And  the  Genius  of  Death,  with  his  brow  bound 
about  with  the  gloomy  hemlock,  and  bearing  in  his 
hands  a  living,  but  a  leafless,  cypress,  stood  beside 
the  couch  where  Washington  lay : 

"  I  will  quench  this  light,"  said  the  Genius  — "  I 
will  overcome  this  lofty  spirit,  which,  forgetting  me, 
mankind  delights  to  honor." 

"Thou   quench   this   light,  —  thou   overcome  this 
spirit !"  — replied  the  Genius  of  Eternal  Fame,  stand- 
ing also  beside  the  couch  of  the  sleeping  Father;  — 
"  Oh,  fool,  that  thou  art!  — ^he  hath  given  thee  immor 
tality  in  dying  at  thy  hands." 


ISOLATED  AFFECTION. 


"  True  love,  still  born  of  heaven,  is  bless'd  with  winga, 
And,  tired  of  earth,  it  plumes  them  back  again, 
And  so  we"iose  it." 


I. 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  a  southern  forest,  thee  grew 
a  beautiful  flower,  the  sweetest  flower  in  thid  lonely 
region.  Its  leaves  were  of  the  purest  white,  for  the  first 
time  unfolding  to  the  world  around  them,  and  reveal- 
ing, as  they  did  so,  the  fine  and  delicate  droppings  of 
violet  and  purple,  which  before,  like  so  much  hidden 
wealth,  had  lain  in  its  bosom.  Its  odor  was  fresh 
and  exquisite,  and  no  flower  in  all  that  forest,  could 
come  near  it  for  sweetness  or  for  beauty.  In  excel- 
lence as  in  condition,  it  was  equally  alone, 

II. 

But  it  was  not  destined  to  be  alone  always.  There 
came  to  it  one  morning  in  May,  a  golden  butterfly — 
a  rover  among  the  flowers — an  ancient  robber  of 
their  sweets.  Gayly  he  plied  his  flight  tinoughout 
the  forest,  now  here  and  now  there,  sporting  about  in 
a  sort  of  errant  unconsciousness.  It  was  not  long 
Before  he  inhaled  the  odor — it  was  not  long  before 


ISOLATED    AFFECTION.  253 

he  saw  the  pure  white  leases,  and  looked  down,  with 
a  yearning  eye,  upon  tl  i  rich  droppings  of  purple 
and  violet  which  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  flower. 

III. 
Flying  around  in  mazy  but  still  contracting  circles, 
he  gazed  upon  the  loveliness  of  the  flower,  and  grew 
more  and  more  enamoured  at  each  moment  of  his 
survey.  "  Surely,"  he  thought,  "this  is  a  flower  by 
itself  —  love's  own  flower  —  dwelling  in  secret — ■ 
blooming  only,  and  budding,  for  his  eyes,  and  denied 
to  all  beside.  It  is  my  good  fortune  to  have  found  it — ■ 
I  will  drink  its  sweets  —  I  will  nestle  in  its  bosom  — 
I  will  enjoy  its  charms  as  I  have  enjoyed  a  thousand 
others." 

IV. 

Even  with  the  thought,  came  the  quick  resolution, 
and  another  moment  found  him  lying — lying  close 
and  pressed  upon  the  bosom  of  the  flower.  There 
was  a  slight  effort  to  escape  from  the  embraces  of  the 
intruder — the  flower  murmured  its  dissent,  but  the 
murmur  died  away  into  a  sigh,  and  the  sigh  was 
inhaled,  as  so  much  honey,  by  the  pressing  lips  of  the 
butterfly.  He  sung  to  the  flower  of  his  love  —  he, 
the  acknowledged  rover  —  the  unlicensed  drinker  of 
sweets  —  the  economical  winner  of  aflfect  ons,  with 
which  he  did  not  share  his  own  —  he  sunsf  to  the 
flower  a  story  of  his  love ;  and,  oh !  saddest  of  all 
the  young  flower  believed  hiin. 


2a 


HIA  ISOLATED   AFFECTIOW. 

V. 

And  day  after  day  he  came  to  the  stolen  embraco, 
and  day  after  day,  more  fondly  than  ever,  the  lovely 
flower  looked  forth  to  receive  him.  She  surrendered 
her  very  soul  to  his  keeping,  and  her  pure  white 
leaves  grew  tinged  with  his  golden  winglets,  while  his 
kisses  stained  with  yel.ow  the  otherwise  delicate 
loveliness  of  her  lips.  But  she  heeded  not  this,  so 
long  as  the  embrace  was  still  fervent — the  kiss  still 
warm — the  return  of  the  butterfly  still  certain. 

VI. 
But  when  was  love  ever  certain  ?  — not  often  where 
the  lover  is  a  butterfly.  There  came  a  change  over 
the  fortunes  of  the  flower,  for  there  came  a  change 
over  the  habits  of  the  butterfly.  He  gradually  fell  ofl^ 
in  his  attentions.  His  passion  grew  cool,  and  the 
ease  of  nis  conquest  led  him  to  undervalue  its  acqui- 
sition. Each  day  he  came  later  and  later,  and  his 
stay  with  the  flower  grew  more  and  more  shortened 
at  every  return.  Her  feelings  perceived  the  estrange- 
ment long  before  Her  reason  had  taught  her  to  think 
upon  or  understand  it. 

VII. 
At  length  she  murmured  her  reproaches  —  and  the 
grievance  must  be  great  when  love  will  venture  so 
far.  "  Wherefore,"  she  said,  "  Oh,  wherefore  ha.st 
thou  lingered  away  so  long.  Why  dost  thou  not 
now,  as  before,  vie  witli  the  sunlight  in  thy  advances? 
I  have  looked  for  thee  from  the  dawning    yet  1  have 


ISOLATED   AFFECTION.  255 

looked  for  thee  in  vain.  The  yellow  beetle  has  been 
all  the  morning-  buzzing  about  me,  but  I  frownea 
upon  his  approaches.  The  green  grasshopper  had  a 
song  under  my  bush,  and  told  me  a  dull  story  of  the 
love  which  he  had  for  me  in  his  bosom;  and,  more 
than  once,  the  glittering  humming  bird  has  sought 
my  embraces,  but  I  shut  my  leaves  against  him. 
Thou  only  hast  been  slow  to  seek  me  —  thou  whom, 
only,  I  have  looked  to  see." 

VIII. 

Gayly  then  the  butterfly  replied  to  these  reproaches, 
nor,-  as  he  spoke,  heeded  the  increasing  paleness  of 
the  flower:  "Over  a  thousand  forests  I've  been  flying, 
each  as  beautiful  as  this  —  on  a  thousand  flowers  I've 
been  'tending,  none  less  lovely  to  the  sight  than  thou. 
How  could'st  thou  dream  that  with  a  golden  winglet, 
broad,  and  free,  and  beautiful,  like  mine,  in  a  single 
spot  I  still  should  linger,  of  the  world  around  unknow- 
ing aught  ?  No,  no  —  mine  is  an  excursive  spirit ;  for  a 
thousand  free  affections  made  ;  —  wouldst~^hou  have 
me,  like  a  groping  s-pider,  working  still  to  girdle  in 
myself?" 

IX. 

It  was  a  murmuring  and  a  sad  reply  of  the  now 
isolated  flower,  and  she  lived  not  long  after  she  had 
made  it:  "Ah,  now  I  know  mine  error  —  my  sad 
error — having  no  wings  myself,  to  mate  with  the 
lover  who  had.  Alas !  that  I  have  loved  so  fondly  and 
foolishly,  for   while  thou  hast  gone  over  a  thousand 


156  ISOLATED    AFFECTION. 

forests,  seeing  a  thousand  flowers,  I  have  on^y  known, 
only  looked,  only  lived  for,  a  single  butterfly." 

X. 

The  false  one  was  soon  away,  after  this,  to  another 
forest;  for  his  ear  loved  not  reproaches,  and  he  had 
sense,  if  not  feeling  enough,  to  know  that  they  were 
uttered  justly.  The  flower  noted  his  departure,  and 
Its  last  sigh  was  an  audible  warning  to  the  young  bud 
which  it  left  behind  it.  The  wood-spirit  heard  the 
sigh  and  the  warning ;  and  when  the  bud  began  to 
expand  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  he  persuaded  the 
black-browed  spider  to  spin  his  web,  and  frame  his 
nest,  in  the  thick  bushes  that  hung  around  it-  and 
many  were  the  wanton  butterflies,  after  this,  who, 
coming  to  prey  upon  the  ninocent  affection,  became 
entangled,  and  justly  perished  in  the  guardian  net- 
work thus  raised  up  to  protect  it. 


A   LIVING   POET. 


Ok  !  gaze  not,  with  sarcastic  smile. 
Upon  his  foppish  gait  and  air ; 
Nor  deem  poetic  feeling  all 
Mere  fancied  mockery,  false  as  fair ' 

He  was  not  always  what  he  is !  — 
His  boyish  years,  his  early  youth. 
Saw  him  an  ardent  worshipper 
Of  beauty,  purity,  and  truth. 

His  heart  was  like  an  echoine  deil : 
The  moaning  brook,  the  mother's  voice. 
Each  wild  unwritten  melody, 
Cowld  make  it  murmur,  or  rejoice. 

He  searched  for  April  violets ; 
He  lingered  in  the  moonlit  air, 
To  gaze  upon  the  sky  of  June, 
To  praise  and  bless  the  dweller  there. 

Then  the  full  tide  of  visions  high, 
Of  holy  love,  of  swelling  bliss. 
Burst  forth  in  fresh  and  heartfelt  song; 
Oh !  then  he  was  not  what  he  is 

22* 


A   LIVING    POET. 

Alas  !  that  beauty  e'er  should  cause 
Her  fond  idolater  to  fall ! 
Why  did  he  leave  her  peaceful  haunts 
To  seek  her  in  the  crowded  haL  . 

In  thai  cold,  uncongenial  clime, 
His  better  nature  drooped  and  died  ; 
His  fancy  stooped,  his  purpose  failed, 
His  heart  was  cnilled,  his  faith  denied. 

Oft,  when  the  winds  have  sunk  to  sleep, 
The  sea  still  rolls  its  billows  blue; 
Thus,  still  he  sings;  —  but  sings  past  thoughts, 
And  feelings  such  as  once  he  knew. 

And  the  affected  verses  show 

The  pallid  hues,  the  sick  perfume, 

Of  buds,  wnich,  gathered  in  the  grove, 

Hftv**.  openea  m  a  heatea  room. 

SicNruvA. 


INNOCENZA, 


Thou  art  not  a  being  of  upper  air  — 

Though  thy  form  be  as  slenaer,  thy  beauty  as  rare 

Nor  a  daughter  of  the  bounding  sea  — 

Though  thy  smile  be  as  sunny,  thy  bosom  as  free  i 

Thou  art  not  the  Dryad's  woodland  child  — 
Though  the  glance  of  thine  eye  be  as  timidh   wild 
Nor  nymph  on  the  margin  of  haunted  rill  — • 
Nor  fairy  that  circles  the  moonlit  hill. 

Spirits  are  these  —  but  of  humbler  birth, 
Than  the  heavenly  soul  of  a  child  of  earth . 
Spirits  are  these  —  that  must  fade  and  die  — 
But  a  spirit  art  thou  of  eternity. 

For  a  christian  mother  o'er  thee  did  raise 
A  prayer  of  hope,  and  a  hymn  of  praise  — 
That  thou  mightst  pass,  when  life  be  spent, 
Pure  to  thy  maker,  and  innocent. 

Sadly  she  soothed  thy  plaintive  wail. 
Till  the  rosy  hues  of  her  cheek  grew  pale 
Wearily  watching  thine  infant  bed, 
While  sleep  from  her  heavy  eyelids  fled. 


260  INNOCENZA. 

And  fondly  she  looked,  that  a  brighter  day 
Those  sorrowful  hours  should  well  repay  — 
A  day  of  long  and  brilliant  years, 
Full  of  promise,  and  free  from  tears.  — 

And  she  trembles  now  with  a  fearful  delight, 
As  she  gazes  on  thee,  thou  blossom  bright  — 
Oh !   may  no  breath  of  sin  or  slight 
Steal  o'er  thy  flowerets,  to  banish  their  light ! 

The  ills  —  that  must  be  to  all  our  race  — 

Ma  vest  thou  bear  with  patience,  and  humble  grace; 

Brighter,  and  better,  and  happier  still. 

Till  liiy  years  shall  have  passed  the  brow  of  the  hii. 

Then — when  thy  path  shall  be  downward  turned. 
And  heaven  desired,  yet  earth  not  spurned  — 
To  tny  long  home  pass,  in  calm  content, 
Ihire  as  thou  now  art,  and  innocent ! 


/am:. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recalL 

i-'ft-'     u.    c 

JUN     4  19/b   ,' 1 

Kira  risr  im:i>t       it,.  .    .,. 

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